


Perfect Imitation

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Art Forgery, Extremely mild PTSD, Heist, M/M, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Post-War, Sansa and Arya sell forged art, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and Jon Snow cleans up their messes, then meets sexy art thief Satin Flowers, they literally have to hide in a closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Newly discharged from the army, Jon returns home from the Wall to find Sansa selling Arya's forged art to earn money to save Winterfell. He gets embroiled in their antics and meets art thief Satin Flowers.
Relationships: Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Comments: 38
Kudos: 81





	1. Part I: Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Has anyone seen the 1966 Audrey Hepburn and Peter O'Toole film _How to Steal a Million?_ It's the inspiration for this fic; although, other than some forged art stealing, the plot is quite different. I did want to mention that Jon Snow is Audrey Hepburn's character because it made me laugh.
> 
> The world building in this fic feels quite slapdash to me, so I hope it holds water. Basically, Westeros is on the tail end of some WWII-esque conflict, so the technology level is pre-computers, but they have phones and cars and airplanes. I didn't feel up to writing a hacking heist. It also didn't suit the aesthetic I was going for. Jon is in his late 20s.
> 
> This fic is in two parts with an epilogue and is complete.

“It’s _perfect!”_

“It damned well better be after all the effort that went into it.”

Arya and Sansa are huddled around a canvas in Arya’s art studio. It’s an airy space, with east facing windows that catch the morning sun reflecting off the snow in the old godswood below. Canvas lines the walls, and a table is haphazardly placed in the center of the room. The rack that once held Arya’s oil paints and brushes in neat rows is in disarray. Paint is splattered on every conceivable surface. Jon sights smudges of color on the back of Arya’s smock and in her hair. 

Jon raps on the doorframe thrice to announce himself; Sansa and Arya turn at the sound.

“Jon!” Arya calls out first, running to him and throwing herself into his arms. The front of her is more covered in paint than the back. She’s taller than she was as a girl, but still over a head shorter than him. “You’re back! Is it for good?”

“It is,” Jon answers, “My watch has ended, or so they say.”

Sansa’s reaction is more subdued; she takes his hands in hers and goes up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s good to have you home, Jon.”

“It’s good to be back.”

Winterfell _is_ his home; he’d been raised there along with his five cousins amidst the old, drafty stone hallways and ever-present snowfields. They always treated him as a sibling, even with the bastard surname of _Snow_ hanging over his head like a raincloud.

Arya slides her arm into Sansa’s as her expression turns a bit sad. “I wish...more of us were here to greet you.”

“I wish the house was better kept, too,” Sansa adds, “Mother would cry if she saw it like this.”

“It’s just a building.” Jon understands the power of the symbol of Winterfell, of the Stark lineage as Wardens of the North, even if the title was archaic now. “And I’ll be able to help, now.”

Sansa’s letters over the past few months indicated that the estate, while not bankrupt, wasn’t exactly prosperous. The toll of war led to the financial ruin and diminishment of many of the great houses. The news arrived at the Wall a few days late, but as the conflict in the south drew to a close, headlines involving notable names having to downsize were common.

“At least we _have_ the house,” Arya says, “Even if it’s dusty.”

The canvas they’d been looking at when he entered the room is a landscape depicting what Jon _thinks_ are the water gardens at Sunspear. He doesn’t know much about art, but the painting is _quite_ lifelike. 

_Has Arya gotten so good?_ One of the last things their father did before his death was send Arya and Sansa off to college. In Jon’s memory, Arya’s paintings were avante garde and abstract.

_A Dornish landscape...isn’t exactly that._

“Arya,” Jon leans into the canvas a bit, “Did you paint this?”

She freezes, and it takes a second before she replies, “I, um-- _yes!_ I did!”

“She’s gotten _much_ better,” Sansa interjects.

Jon stares at the painting a bit longer. He’s never been to Dorne, but he could _swear_ he’s seen the image _somewhere_ before. _Maybe in a book?_

“It’s good.” _It’s nice that she learned so much at school._ Jon always liked the idea that his sisters were able to go to college. “Tomorrow, we’ll go over the books and see what we can do. My pension is decent, and we’re resourceful.”

Sansa elbows her sister in the side, “And we’ve got our own things brewing, don’t we, Arya?”

* * *

Jon probably couldn’t name ten famous Westerosi works of art if his life depended on it.

Nevertheless, some of the artwork in Arya’s studio starts to look familiar. Not like something he’s seen in a gallery, more like in a magazine or some long-forgotten schoolbook. She tends to keep her work secret, a privacy Jon respects. When he calls on her today, though, she’s not fast enough to cover the canvas.

Instead, Arya stands beside it, paintbrush stuffed in the pocket of her apron. She locks her hands behind her back like she’s about the present at a school fair. The painting is of a man sitting on a stone throne wearing a crown; his hair and beard are as gray as the sea in winter. 

Arya is smiling at him. “Jon, how are you today?”

“I’m fine, Arya. How are you?”

“Well,” she gives him an even brighter grin, “The weather is nice today, isn’t it?”

Jon glances out the window; most of the snow has melted, but there’s no sun in the flat gray sky.

“It’s...weather,” he pauses, “Arya, what are you painting?”

“Just some practice,” she replies, flippant. “It’s the Grey King, y’know, from the Age of Heroes. He ruled the Iron Islands.”

“I remember the story.” Jon narrows his eyes and looks at the half-completed painting. “I thought you preferred more...abstract art to classical.”

“We learned different styles in school,” she replies, “I’m just trying things out. For _fun._ ”

Arya has a special way of letting a person know she’s done having a conversation. She used to use it on Catelyn when she wanted her to come inside from pretending sticks were swords in the backyard.

_I’m not going to get anything out of her like this._

Nevertheless, the sight of the half-completed painting lingers in Jon’s mind.

* * *

It takes Jon months to figure out _what_ exactly Arya and Sansa’s _other things_ are. 

Part of the blame is on himself--he’s newly released from the military and shuffling around his childhood home with nothing to do. There are no men to command, no reason to be alert. Deprived of the structure of his daily life for the last few years, Jon spends too much time thinking on family members who are lost.

_Father. Robb. Even Catelyn, who never treated me as a son._

Jon thinks of comrades he failed, too--they’d won, but he _never_ wanted to be in command. _How many lives were lost because I was too green to lead men?_ There’d been a need, so he’d stepped up, thinking all the while _it’s what Ned Stark would do._

Ned Stark would’ve done it better.

When Jon gets out of his own head and starts seeing what’s going on around him, he notices some patterns. 

The first is that Arya and Sansa get along like a house on fire. As a boy, the room he shared with Robb was adjacent to the room his sisters shared. While Robb and he rarely fought, the same couldn’t be said for Sansa and Arya. Jon vividly remembers the rows the two of them used to have, _especially_ when they became teens. _Something_ shifted in the years he’d been away because the two of them spent most of their mornings cloistered in Arya’s art studio or talking in whispers that go silent when Jon enters the room. 

The second is that Sansa gets _a lot_ of correspondence, at least a letter every other day. His sister has always been quite private, but she starts locking the letters in a small desk in the sitting room with a key she keeps around her neck.

The third is that their bank account becomes _surprisingly_ flush. Jon left Sansa to manage it, trusting her, but he’s not _quite_ sure how their funds became so plentiful.

Jon tries to ask, more than once, but Sansa just ruffles his hair and tells him, “Just relax.”

* * *

The next piece of evidence comes to Jon as a sheer coincidence.

Jon reads the paper with breakfast. It’s not that he _wants_ news--in fact, he’s quite enjoying _not_ needing to know the going-ons of either the war or the reconstruction effort. Since he can’t shake the habit, Jon opens to the middle of the paper and starts reading--opinions, editorials, art, lifestyle-- _anything_ else.

Jon finds an article on great works of art that have gone missing or been destroyed since the beginning of the war. It’s an impact he’s never considered, too concerned with keeping _people_ alive. 

_While the loss of life during the course of the war is immense, it is equally underscored by the loss of cultural icons all across Westeros. This loss can be felt in all sectors of artistic and cultural life, from historical sites and cultural landmarks that have been destroyed by firebombings and air raids, to great works of art that were stolen, defaced or lost in the conflict._

The article goes on to explain, in what Jon thinks might be _too_ much detail, the pursuits of the Targaryen loyalists to destroy artifacts and places of cultural significance to the First Men. Jon thinks of Winterfell’s own godswood, ancient and gnarled, but intact. Others weren’t so lucky, which said nothing of the ruins of castles and other sites.

Jon’s attention starts to wane when he flips the page and is greeted with a full-page photo of the _exact_ same painting Arya had been working on the other day. He stares at the caption beneath it.

The Grey King, _pictured here five years before the beginning of the war, used to hang in White Harbor’s art museum. Now, the painting is just one of many thought to be destroyed. Although, reports that it’s been seen on the black market surfaced last week._

* * *

Jon never considered himself a snoop, but when Sansa doesn’t properly lock her desk, he takes the chance. _Just so I know I’m losing my mind._ Because there’s no way his little sisters are forging and selling art to earn back their family fortune. That would just be...it would be _almost_ more than Jon can handle.

He’s going to find letters from her school friends and be ashamed of himself.

Life has _never_ cared what Jon could handle, though; it only cared what ridiculous situation could be foisted upon him. The trend shows no sign of stopping because he finds a letter from Petyr Baelish about the sale of _The Grey King._

It takes a few days, but when Jon goes to confront them, Arya and Sansa are meeting with Petyr Baelish in Winterfell’s front sitting room.

Baelish stands when Jon enters the room and gives him a sweeping bow. “Lord Snow, returned from the Northern front at last.”

“Indeed,” Jon _hates_ being called _lord._ Commander would be better; at least that acknowledged his rank. “Lord Baelish, I don’t think we’ve seen each other since before I enlisted.”

 _And it was one of the few blessings in the frigid hellscape._ Baelish was a friend of Lady Catelyn’s and visited Winterfell many times throughout Jon’s childhood. He always thought Catelyn had a _bit_ of a blind spot about how slimy Baelish seemed, but it was never his place to say.

“It has been _many_ years. Tell me, how are you faring in civilian life?”

Stiffly, Jon replies, “Well enough.”

Sansa rises from the sitee, hands clasped before her, “Lord Baelish has been checking on us from time-to-time since Mother and Father--”

“Checking up on?” Jon’s been at Winterfell for two months, and _this_ is the first he’s heard of such an arrangement. “I’m certain that’s not needed.”

“Cat’s children are like family to me,” Baelish replies, putting a hand over his chest like he’s about to make a vow. “I only want to make sure the five of you are doing well.”

“We’re fine,” Arya says, crossing her arms, “You have what you need, so you can go whenever.”

 _“Arya,”_ Sansa snaps, “Don’t be rude to Lord Baelish. Without him, we wouldn’t be able to--”

“I _know,_ Sansa, but that doesn’t mean we have to rub elbows with him. He’s our...associate, not our damned friend.”

Baelish doesn’t seem offended by the slight and laughs, “The two of you remind me of Cat and Lysa.”

Talking about family is a bit of a minefield; _everyone’s_ posture stiffens. Jon wants to throw his hands up in the air and stomp out of the room like a child. 

Instead, Jon decides to do what he _always_ has to do, and takes control of the conversation. He’s not feeling polite anymore, so he uses the moniker Baelish chose for himself rather than his name. “Littlefinger, _how_ exactly are you aiding my family?”

“I’m helping your sisters with a business venture,” Baelish says, “...After a fashion.”

“A business venture?” Jon doesn’t try to hide his skepticism. “I know the kind of business you deal in. What do my sisters have to do with it?”

The best way to describe Baelish’s ventures is _illegal._

“He’s--” Sansa starts.

“....Selling my art!” Arya finishes, “...Kinda.”

Bealish gives a feigned innocuous smile and shrugs, “See, I’m just helping out Cat’s girls.”

 _By the old gods and the new, it’s true._ Jon pulls the letter from Sansa’s roll top desk out of the lining pocket of his jacket. Sansa recognizes the blue envelope and reaches for the key on the chair around her neck, mouth ajar.

“Jon, you _snooped?”_ Arya yells.

 _“Yes._ Because the two of you’ve been behaving so damn weird since I’ve been here. The influx of _money_ , the irregular correspondence, Arya’s sudden _practice_ paintings.”

“You _still_ shouldn’t have read my letters, Jon!” Sansa shouts.

Jon manages to keep his voice level, “You shouldn’t be _breaking the law!_ What would father and mother say?”

 _“Nothing,”_ Sansa says, “because they _died_ and left us alone, and we’re broke.” 

“Caution is best exercised, of course,” Baelish interjects, “but your sister is _quite_ good, and my contacts are _very_ discrete.”

Arya makes a gagging noise, “Don’t compliment me, creep; this is a business deal.”

“No more, ”Jon points at the door, “Go, Littlefinger, and don’t darken our door again.” 

Baelish takes a step toward Jon, “Lord _Snow,_ are you suddenly a Stark and the master of the house?”

“No, but I won’t let you wrap my sisters further up into your dealings.”

“It was our idea,” Arya says.

“The next one _has_ to proceed,” Sansa says, “Lord Baelish and I are meeting the buyer in King’s Landing next week.”

* * *

Littlefinger left with a condescending waggle of his fingers and said, “See you in King’s Landing, Lady Sansa.”

Jon, as an adult, doesn’t want to yell at his equally adult siblings. Ned Stark never yelled at them, preferring a quiet disappointment that was ten-times more acutely shaming than a raised voice. He doesn’t want to do _that_ either because he really, _really_ has no authority over their lives.

Nevertheless, Jon is angry; so much so that he balls his hands into fists. His right hand is scarred from a burn he suffered early in his service, and, as usual, the curling of his fingers is stiff. _That_ frustrates him equally.

Sansa and Arya are giving him twin looks of incredulity, as though it’s his fault for busting in on their secret illegal enterprise.

 _“What_ were the two of you thinking?” Jon _almost_ yells. _Getting upset ruins authority._ He learned that early on. Once the high ground is lost, it’s lost for good. All that’s left in the wake of that is brute force, which won’t work on _either_ of his sisters.

He _really_ wishes he had a cigarette about now.

“Jon,” Arya puts her hands on her hips, “Everything is _shit._ I know you were out there protecting us, so you know, but it hasn’t been a picnic here. The rationing, the constant anxiety.”

“We didn’t want to lose our home,” Sansa says softly. “It’s all we have left of Mother and Father. I couldn’t stand the thought of you coming home to find we’d had to sell it.”

Jon’s anger at them deflates, but not at the situation, “You could’ve written to me.”

“And what would you have done?” Arya says, “Deserted and come home? Then you’d go to jail, and what good would _that_ do any of us?”

“I could’ve--” _Nothing._ There was nothing he could’ve done, just like when Robb and Father were killed, just like _always._ “I would’ve known. And Arya, _you_ could go to jail.”

She scoffs, “It’s just some dumb old paintings being purchased by rich fucks to hang in their houses and gloat.”

“It’s fraud.”

“It is,” Sansa agrees, “but Lord Baelish’s contacts are _very_ discreet.”

“And we don’t trust him,” Arya adds, flopping onto the sofa, “Everything goes through Sansa.”

“It’s all private collectors; Lord Baelish makes sure of it. Most of them know the paintings were obtained on the black market and wouldn’t risk displaying them publicly or reselling them.”

Jon doesn’t condone what they’re doing, but he has to admit they’re much more thorough than he initially imagined. Sansa and Arya are clever and resourceful, much more than Jon thinks he is. Both of them are looking at him now like they expect him to change his mind now that he knows more.

“What?” He decides to play oblivious. “Were you expecting me to praise you?”

“You weren’t here, Jon,” Sansa’s blue eyes are filled with conviction; she looks so much like her mother. “We have Bran and Rickon to look after, and all the servants. Their families live here, too. I couldn’t even afford to send them away with enough wages to relocate.”

Their father _always_ did what needed done and never passed it off to another, no matter how he detested it. Jon was raised like that; they all had been. All the hard choices Jon made at the Wall, all the men he’d sacrificed for a lesser evil, for a less shitty choice. Jon thought of his father so many times when he signed an order or fired the gun himself. 

“So you did what you had to do,” Jon finally replies, “I understand.”

“It’s a war here, too; it’s just different,” Sansa answers.

Something in Jon submits; he sighs and rubs his scarred hand over his face. _“How_ did you discover this talent of Arya’s?”

Arya sits up and grins, “Well, it’s a funny story, actually…”

* * *

By the time Sansa and Arya are to leave for King’s Landing, Jon’s made himself a fucking accomplice in their operation.

_It’s fine. We can all go to jail together._

Arya shows him the first painting she copied; a portrait, of all things, of their father and his three siblings that hangs above the stairwell in the foyer. Jon knows the painting well because he used to stare at Lyanna, who looked so much like Arya, and think _she’s my mother._

“I was bored,” she tells him, staring at the two paintings side-by-side. If not for the familiar, dark wood frame, Jon wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. “I just thought I’d try copying it.”

“Damn.”

“That’s what Littlefinger said,” Arya replies, “Well, not verbatim, but the sentiment was the same. His version was creepier.”

Jon nods, “I don’t like him.”

“Me either. Who would?”

“Lady Catelyn did.”

“...I’m not sure Mother knew Littlefinger very well. He’s _very_ good at hiding how gross he is.”

The more he talks with Arya, the more she tells him of the forgeries, the more grimly impressed Jon becomes at the entire operation. Sansa’s natural diplomacy makes her a convincing art dealer, and Arya’s skill with the paintbrush make them quite a team.

“The accounts are shored up,” Jon tells them at the dining table the night before their flight to King’s Landing. Rickon is long asleep, but he keeps his voice low regardless. “This needs to be the last one. Can we agree on that?”

Arya blows a raspberry and rolls her eyes; Sansa gives a tight smile and nods.

“I’m taking that as the two of you agreeing with me.”

“I agree,” Sansa says, “the old gods punish the greedy, or so Septa Mordane used to say.”

Arya chuckles, “Logically, the longer we go at it, the more likely we are to get caught. Even if Littlefinger is just selling to private collectors, only so much ‘missing’ art can resurface without _someone_ getting suspect.”

Jon replies dryly, “Quit while you’re on top.” 

* * *

Jon’s never actually been to King’s Landing. The largest city he’s visited is White Harbor, or maybe Hardhome where the descendants of the Free Folk live in the far north beyond the Wall. Northern cities, even before the war, have a quietness to them that King’s Landing utterly lacks. Northerners aren’t prone to extravagance and pride themselves on self-sufficiency, and their cities reflect that.

In King’s Landing, the war front reached Blackwater Bay. While the city bears the scars of it, damage to buildings and infrastructure, people teem on the streets, laughing and talking. 

The three of them take a cab from the airport to the hotel Littlefinger booked them. Jon stares at the lights and billboards and the four-deep rows of cars at a stand still in the streets. The buildings are tall enough that he cranes his head and can’t see the tops.

“A country boy?” their cab driver jokes.

“Yeah,” Arya replies, reaching over to tap Jon on the chin as if to close his slack jaw. “We’re all bumpkins.”

 _“Hey,”_ Jon jerks his head away, “I’m just looking.”

“Don’t fight, children,” Sansa says. Of the three of them, Sansa _looks_ like she belongs in a cosmopolitan setting in her black and white sundress. She’s wearing a white, wide-brimmed sun hat and pearl earrings that belonged to Catelyn.

Arya looks like a street urchin, and Jon thinks he looks like...well, _dull._ Pants and a light jacket. He’s barely left Winterfell in the last few months and has _very_ few clothes. Sansa handed him this outfit when they left that morning.

“It’ll be warm,” she said, “and humid. Your hair will frizz.”

“Do we _have_ to stay at the hotel Littlefinger booked?” Jon asks when the cab pulls under the covered valet. “I’d rather not be indebted to him.”

“It’s safest,” Sansa whispers into his ear as they step out of the cab. “His people are all around. We’re meeting the buyer for dinner tonight in the hotel restaurant. When we spoke on the phone, Lord Baelish mentioned I know them.”

“I’m...not certain I like the sound of that,” Jon says as he takes his suitcase from the trunk. The painting was picked up by Littlefinger’s men two days prior; he’s glad they didn’t have to take it on the plane and look _extra_ suspicious.

“Eh,” Arya shrugs and grabs her bag, “we’ll make it work.”

* * *

A bellhop tries to take Jon’s bag when they enter the lobby of the King’s Landing Grand Hotel through the revolving glass doors, but Jon brushes him off with a firm “No thank you.” The suitcase is the only one he possesses; the brown leather is scuffed with age, and he can carry it easily. Handing his belongings off to a stranger makes him uncomfortable.

Sansa and Arya clearly have no such concern; they hand their suitcases to the bellhop, and Sasna drops a gold dragon into the man’s hand as a tip.

The first item on Jon’s agenda is paying for his own accommodations. The room rate makes him feel like someone punched him in the gut, but it’s only a few nights, and he never spends his pension anyway. _Besides, my sisters have clearly demonstrated they don’t need me, financially speaking._

It’s better than being indebted to Petyr Baelish; most things are better than that.

Jon requests a downgrade--he doesn’t need a view of the King’s Landing skyline, or a parlor, or a bathtub big enough to host a party, or a minibar. 

The receptionist smiles at him, “You’re in the wrong hotel if you prefer austere accommodations, sir.”

He sighs, “Tell me about it.”

The entire lobby is _ridiculous--_ from the marble floors that are nearly a mirror, to the gold leafing on the columns that support the fresco-painted ceiling. The tile is inlaid with a geometric pattern that repeats all the way to the row of elevators with gold doors. The furniture is plush, and the giant crystal chandeliers remind Jon of sunlight reflecting through icicles.

“I’ll let you keep your upgrade,” the receptionist spins some paperwork to face Jon, “and here’s some breakfast vouchers. On the weekend, the chef does this dish from Lys with puff pastry--anyway, it’s _quite_ decadent.” 

Jon spent years living on army rations and canteen slop, so he just nods and signs his name. “Thank you, I think.”

She passes a key across the counter; it looks like it could open a treasure chest more than a hotel room. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

Jon’s fairly certain that he won't; the posh opulence of the hotel will be the least among the reasons why.

“You can’t come to dinner tonight,” Sansa whispers as she passes him on the way to the elevator. “An extra person will be suspicious.”

“That’s fine.” Jon didn’t really want to spend an uncomfortable, probably multi-course meal with Littlefinger and _whoever_ their rich buyer of forged art is. It does hurt, a little, to be left out, but it's a memory of an old wound from childhood, like the family portrait Catelyn commissioned that Jon wasn’t in. 

_Always a bit apart._

Sansa and Arya wave farewell at the elevator door. Jon decides how to avail himself of his free time for the evening. He goes to his room, first. The space is as ridiculous as the lobby--complete with the swimming pool bathtub and view of King’s Landing he tried to downgrade from. He places his suitcase on the luggage bench; it looks _unbearably_ shabby next to the dark wood.

A second of sitting on the edge of the king bed tells Jon it’s going to be too soft to sleep on. His room at Winterfell was like that for the first few weeks home; used to his cot or the ground for so many years, Jon could only fall asleep on the floor with his pillow and blanket. 

The plane and cab ride left him feeling stale, so Jon splashes some water on his face and changes clothes before heading back to the lobby. Sansa thrust him a garment bag with a suit in it, so Jon puts it on. _Maybe I’ll look less out of place in the lobby._ The fit is perfect, and since it’s from Sansa, he shouldn’t be surprised.

* * *

Jon sees Sansa and Arya across the lobby. 

Sansa changed into a dinner dress; it matches her blue eyes and leaves her shoulders bare. Jon knows she’s a grown woman, but he’s taken aback by how mature the ensemble makes her look. Arya, next to her, is wearing high-waisted pants and a blouse.

_The best Littlefinger is going to get out of her._

Eavesdropping isn’t his intent, but he lingers a moment before following them into the restaurant off the lobby. The entire hotel seems to be engineered to get guests to burn gold dragons on food and drink. Jon decides, for once, to lean into it and finds a seat at the bar. The wall of liquor before him is impressive. Backlit, the multi colored bottles look like stained glass. Most of the labels he recognizes are things he’d feel hedonistic ordering.

Jon’s out of the war, but the war isn’t out of him.

The bartender is drying a shaker when he approaches Jon. “What can I get for you?”

“A food menu,” Jon answers, “and what rum do you have?”

The bartender lists off several, mostly imports from Essos, and Jon chooses one. He learned to drink all manner of hooch while enlisted, so even straight, the rum is spiced, buttery, and _delicious._ Ygritte would call it a pussy drink, and the memory makes Jon smile. She could knock back shit he wouldn’t even touch, and was one _hell_ of a tank operator.

Then, he thinks of shrapnel in her chest, her blood coating the snow, and the smile vanishes.

Arya, Sansa, and Littlefinger are somewhere behind them, too far away to hear. Jon glances, hopefully covertly, over his shoulder from time to time. Sansa is holding a glass of red wine and laughing. Their buyer, whoever it is, hasn’t arrived yet. He stops peeking when his sandwich arrives. Sansa will look, eventually, and _that_ will be awkward when she notices him.

Jon’s alone at the bar through the first half of his turkey club. He orders a second rum and nurses it slowly. The bartender must sense that Jon _hates_ smalltalk and leaves him be. Besides, the person who chooses the stool three down from Jon seems to be taking up all the bartender’s attention. 

“What’s the best drink on the menu?”

The bartender sounds like he’s been asked that question one too many times. “The Pentoshi Sunrise is popular.”

“I didn’t ask what was popular; what’s _best?”_

“Honestly, I can’t afford the drinks here.”

Jon hears a laugh so sweet and mirthful that he glances right and regrets it _immediately._ He’s hit, _clobbered_ , honestly, by the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on. Jon can only see him in profile, but black curls tumble over his shoulders, and the hand he’s resting his chin on is delicate. The bartender says some reply that sounds like static to Jon’s ears, and the man laughs again, lips turning up in a smile. 

“Make me something special, then. Your choice.”

“A-alright. Give me a moment,” the bartender replies; he didn’t sound _nearly_ as accommodating or nervous when Jon ordered. Then again, Jon would swallow his own tongue if someone who looked like that was talking to him, which is _quite_ unfortunate because the moment the bartender hands him the drink, the new guest slides into the stool next to him.

 _Please, please don’t talk to me_ and _please, please talk to me_ flash in Jon’s mind simultaneously.

“You don’t look like someone who sits alone at a hotel bar.”

He _absolutely_ thinks he looks like someone who sits alone at a bar. All his friends are far-flug at best, and war casualties at worst. Jon’s never been able to flirt worth a damn, if that’s even what’s going on, so he answers with the truth.

“I’ve sat alone at many bars.”

The laugh is even _more_ devastatingly warm and sweet in close proximity. “A lie, surely.”

“I’ve been told I look surly,” he takes a sip of rum, “and generally unapproachable.”

 _“Hmmm,”_ he taps his index finger against his lips and smirks, “I don’t think so at all.”

“Hence the...approaching,” Jon replies lamely; he can imagine Ygritte cackling at his failure.

The man rests his elbow on the bar and looks at Jon. Now that they’re facing one another, Jon weathers a second assault of _just_ how beautiful this mysterious stranger is. He’s watching Jon with a pair of brown doe eyes that seem to take up half his face. His skin is porcelain pale and he’s wearing some sweetly spiced cologne that invades Jon’s senses.

“Are you in King’s Landing alone?” he asks, eyes still locked with Jon’s. 

“I--um, no,” Jon feels a bit like someone stuffed a stack of bar napkins down his throat. “I’m here with my sisters.”

“And they left you alone?” There’s a hint of teasing in his voice.

“They’re at dinner, but it’s a...work thing, so I didn’t want to crash it.” A bit too simple, but good enough. Jon certainly isn’t going to tell him about Arya and Sansa’s side business.

“Well, you have company now,” he grins and leans a bit closer, “Is there a name I can call you?”

“Jon,” he pauses, “...Snow.”

“Ah, you’re Northern! I thought so.”

“You...did?”

He nods and the tumble of curls bounce with the gesture, “Your _look_ Northern and sound it, too.”

Jon supposes, with his brown hair and grey eyes, that he does. Arya, too. All the rest of them look like Catelyn--pale, auburn-haired, and blue-eyed. 

“The last name gives it away, too,” he shrugs.

“Is this your first time in King’s Landing?”

Jon nods and takes another drink.

The stranger claps his hands once and laughs, “Ah, a _country_ boy.”

“You’re the _second_ person who’s said that today.” 

He laughs again, “How long are you and your sisters here?”

“Just until Monday morning.” 

“Well,” he slides out of the stool and picks up his drink. Then, he leans in and _kisses_ Jon. The gesture is over almost before it begins. Then, his lips curl upward in a coy smile. _“Maybe_ we’ll see each other again, Jon Snow.”

Jon stares at the fine lines of his suit as he walks away. He licks his lips; whatever the stranger was drinking tastes like apples.

_I didn’t even get his name._

* * *

The bed _is_ too soft.

Jon spends half the night awake imagining all the smooth lines he could’ve delivered to the mystery man if he wasn’t such a bumbling jackass. Maybe the softness of the bed wouldn’t matter so much if he had someone to share it with.

Suddenly, the fact that it’s been _quite_ a while since he was with anyone is unbearably frustrating. Ygritte was an entire lifetime ago, and anything else was stress relief and not worth remembering. 

_More than a year, definitely._

He tosses and turns and eventually gets up. It’s after midnight, but the King’s Landing skyline remains as bright as ever. Even the night sky is pale with the electric light. There’s a recliner facing the window, so Jon takes his pillow and comforter and stretches out on that.

It’s softer than the ground, but harder than his bed at Winterfell. Nevertheless, Jon sleeps.

Sansa knocks on his door early the next morning; Jon throws the pillow and the blanket on the bed and hopes she won’t notice it doesn’t look like he slept there.

“Morning,” Sansa waggles her fingers at him. Her makeup and outfit, a houndstooth pencil skirt and blouse, are flawless. “I’m sorry about dinner; I hope you managed.”

“I’m not a kid,” Jon rolls his eyes at her, “But yes, I ate.”

“Arya said she saw you at the bar,” his sister grins at him, “talking to someone.”

“I didn’t realize Arya spent dinner _spying_ on me.”

“Well, you sat at the bar and spied on _us._ And yes, we _noticed.”_

“Did it muck anything up?”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head. Then, she leans closer and lowers her voice. “The buyer is Aunt Lysa.”

Jon pulls Sansa into the room and closes the door, “Catelyn’s sister?”

“The very same,” she continues, “I haven’t seen her in probably fifteen years.”

“How is she?”

Sansa smiles, but it’s more of a grimace. “She’s...a little unbalanced? Her husband is an old friend of Father’s, but I don’t think they love each other. I think she just...buys things.”

Even though they’re alone, he lowers his voice further, “Like forged art?”

“Aunt Lysa doesn’t _know_ it’s forged; she thinks I discovered it on a recent trip to Pentos.”

“Lots of art that went missing is suspected to be in Essos.”

“Are you an expert suddenly?” Sansa raises both her eyebrows.

“There was an article in the newspaper; it’s how I figured out you and Arya were forging art.”

“Clever,” Sansa pats his beard, “I’ve never been to Pentos, you know.”

“I know; unless you were seeking tropical vistas while I was freezing to death. “Jon takes her wrist and pulls it away from his face, “Did Lysa notice the ruse?”

“No, she was just impressed by me. Lord Baelish talked me up. She seems to _really_ trust him.”

Jon’s not going to mince words, “Then Lysa Arryn is an idiot.”

“I...yeah, you might be right,” she admits, “but if she’s willing to pay...anyway, would you like to get some breakfast? Arya’s off meeting her boyfriend from school, but Lord Baelish won’t be there.”

“Arya...has a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, his name’s Gendry; they’ve been long-distance since she came home for the summer. You didn’t know?”

 _How much_ else _did I miss?_

“I...didn’t.”

Sansa waves her hand dismissively, “Anyway, they do this--”

“...Puff pastry dish?”

“The receptionist talked it up to you, too?”

* * *

The puff pastry dish is paired with Dornish grapefruit and the most delicious thing Jon has eaten in ages. 

“Aunt Lysa’s having a party at her home to unveil the painting,” Sansa tells him. “You can come this time, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to, but I will.” Being in the know would make him feel better, even if here was nothing he could really _do._

“Their house is on Rhaenys’s Hill, so you’ll have to dress appropriately.” Sansa gives him a critical once-over. “Wear the suit.”

“I know how to dress myself for a formal occasion.”

Sansa gives him a skeptical eyebrow raise.

They spend the day together. Sansa’s familiar with King’s Landing, so she treats it like a tourist outing. They tour the Red Keep and the ancient ruins of the Dragon Pit and walk along the boardwalk near the harbor. Even with the nascent criminal activity, it’s the most relaxing day Jon’s spent since leaving the Wall and maybe sometime before that.

The Arryn’s home is palatial _and_ ostentatious. Lysa may not love her husband, but she _clearly_ loves flaunting his old money. From the moment Jon enters the foyer, he knows it’s not a house guests are meant to be comfortable in. The dining room table is huge and surrounded by stiff chairs with rich brocade fabric. There’s probably a year’s worth of Jon’s pension in the ornate crown moulding in _just_ the two rooms he’s seen.

Lysa glides across the floor to meet them; she’s wearing a navy evening gown with too much jewelry and heavy makeup. Sansa and Arya embrace her and kiss her cheek; although Arya looks like she’d rather not.

“You’ve brought your cousin,” Lysa says to him, “I didn’t know he was still around.”

“Jon’s only been home for a few months,” Sansa links her arm through his, “We’ve been cooped up at Winterfell, so I thought we all deserve a vacation.”

“Thank you for having me,” Jon doesn’t feel terribly gracious, but the platitude is easy, “Your home is...ornate.”

“It’s been _such_ fun to decorate,” Lysa says, _“The Song of Earth_ is the _last_ piece the house needs. It will look _splendid_ on the balcony.”

_It’s all for gloating._

“It’s gonna be a _long_ evening,” Arya whispers; Jon can’t help but agree.

After a meal of too-rich food that sits like a rock in Jon’s stomach, everyone crowds onto the second floor balcony for the unveiling. The gold and crystal chandelier looks even more massive at eye-level.

Some of the guests are from the dining room, but many seem to have poured in after the meal, seeking cocktails and a glimpse at the painting. Holding champagne, they spill out onto the terrace through several double doors. The painting _is_ stunning--an ornate depiction of Brandon the Builder meeting with the Children of the Forest. 

Jon doesn’t know _anyone_ here, but he finds himself scanning the crowd. Sansa is talking with Lysa, but Arya’s certain surliness at the pomp would make good company. He doesn’t spot Arya, but he _does_ catch sight of a familiar head of black curls leaning against the wall between the doors. _This man from the bar._ He’s twirling his champagne flute between his fingers and smirking. 

All day, Jon had done his best to _not_ think about being kissed by a beautiful stranger. The course of his life decidedly _didn’t_ include events like that. 

_What is he doing here?_

He’s still staring when Arya says to his left, “Not a fan of being trussed up?” 

Startled, Jon looks to his sister. “I spent too much time with the Free Folk, apparently.” She hands him two fingers worth of whisky before clanking her identical glass against his and grinning. 

When Jon looks back across the balcony, the stranger is gone.

Jon intends to ask Arya about Gendry, but Lysa taps a spoon against her glass to get everyone’s attention.

“My wonderful niece, Sansa,” Lysa calls out, “has found a priceless treasure of Westerosi culture that was thought to be lost. She discovered it on a recent trip to Pentos and brought it back to its rightful home from the bastards that stole it.”

“Thank you.” Sansa’s poker face is _perfect;_ she’s smiling beatifically like Lysa isn’t spouting bullshit. Everyone gives her polite applause. 

“When Petyr told me Sansa had found the painting, I knew I _had_ to make the first offer. I even asked that my identity be kept a secret until she arrived in King’s Landing. ”

“When I found out it was Aunt Lysa, I didn’t even consider another buyer.” Sansa smiles as she sips her champagne. “I knew you’d be the _best_ choice.” 

Beside him, Arya sniggers.

Jon pokes her in the side with his index finger, “Don’t get cocky.”

Lysa is still standing under the gilded frame, grinning smugly.

“The painting will be displayed here tonight,” Lysa calls out once the group quiets, “but then it will be on loan to the King’s Landing Art Museum for a month. A cultural treasure like this should be shared before it adorns my wall permanently”

 _With proper credit to you, of course._ Jon can’t imagine Lysa Arryn doing something _just_ for the cultural enrichment of the masses.

Arya grabs Jon’s bicep; his sister’s eyes are wide in shock. “They’ll test it.”

Across the room, Sansa, has the _exact_ same expression.

_Well, fuck._

Jon is there when Sansa and Arya drag Littlefinger by the arm into a guest bedroom off the balcony. He has an annoying, smug smirk on his face that makes Jon want to punch him. He can almost feel the energy of it running up his arm.

 _“What are we going to do?”_ Sansa hisses.

Littlefinger shrugs, _“We’re_ going to do nothing.”

“What the _fuck_ does that mean?” Arya snaps, “A museum will test it, and then we’re _royally screwed.”_

“No,” Littlefinger smirks his oily smirk and walks through the door, _“You’ll_ be royally screwed.”

Arya paces the length of the room, arms crossed. Sansa is sitting on the bed, drumming her fingers on the comforter.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck _Fuck.”_

“Arya, stop pacing,” Sansa says, “It’s fine.”

“Sansa, _how_ is it fine?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Is that before or _after_ we go to jail? You _told_ me we had the upper hand over Littlefinger.”

“And we did,” Sansa shakes her head, “Until we didn’t.”

Jon stares out the window at the skyline as his sisters bicker. _I told you so_ pops into his mind several times, but saying that won’t be any help. _If only I’d returned home sooner._ That wasn’t possible, either; Jon saw what happened to deserters. He’s here _now_ , and there has to be _something_ he can do to solve the problems of his family. 

He turns and looks at his sisters, arms crossed, “Leave the party when everyone else does. I’ll take care of it.”

_I’m just not sure how yet._

* * *

Jon’s a soldier, not an art thief, so two hours later finds him with no plan, holding a glass of champagne on the veranda. The view is _almost_ as good as the one from his exorbitant hotel room because he can see Blackwater Bay beyond the lights.

Sansa was being paraded around the throng by Lysa to socialize, Arya accompanying her. None of their earlier panic comes through from what Jon observes, which impresses him. He’d learned to be calm and unflappable because people under his command needed him to be. 

It was _never_ easy, especially when the odds weren’t in his favor; his sisters deserve credit.

 _What am I going to do?_ Stepping up and declaring he’d fix things made sense to Jon, too. _It’s my job._ Only nothing in his skillset made him able to steal a painting. It’s not as though Jon can walk up to Lysa and explain the situation. He’s not a hero in a spy novel, either, so he won’t be breaking and entering.

 _Take advantage of the position I already have._ He’s in the house with the painting, and everyone will leave eventually. Perhaps if he just...waits?

“Funny meeting you two nights in a row,” a voice says next to him, “It must be fate.”

Jon turns. There _he_ is, elbows leaning on the stucco bannister. He’s impeccably dressed again, but his suit is dark gray tonight. Another flute of champagne is in his hand.

“Fate,” Jon replies, _“or_ you’re stalking me.”

“You’re certainly good looking enough to stalk.”

Jon can’t help but chuckle awkwardly, “Because _that’s_ not a weird thing to say.”

“It’s just an honest appraisal.”

 _I’m plain._ Jon’s always thought that; a common name and a common face. There’s _nothing_ plain about the mystery man.

“Thanks, I guess.”

The stranger leans close enough that Jon catches the scent of his cologne again, “What brings _you_ to this party? You don’t look comfortable.”

“My sister is the one who found the painting.” The lie comes easily enough, and even if it didn’t, Jon won’t be the one to dig his sisters deeper into a hole. 

_“Ah,_ how fortunate for her.”

“What brings you to a party at the Arryn’s? You weren’t at dinner.”

The stranger gives an enigmatic smile; Jon wants to pull him close by the tie and unpack it. “I just like looking at beautiful things. He pushes himself off the railing and turns to go. “Maybe I’ll see you later, Jon Snow.”

“Wait--” Jon turns, too. “Do you have a name?”

Another smile; although, this one seems more amused. “Most people do.”

“Tell me, then.”

“It’s Satin.”

He waves and goes back in the house before Jon can reply.

* * *

Jon finds Arya and whispers, “If Lysa asks, tell her I left early.”

“Jon,” she replies, _“what_ are you gonna do?”

“The less you know, the better.”

“Jon--”

“Arya, be my baby sister for once and _don’t_ ask.”

There’s enough people milling around that Jon thinks it believable he slipped out early. Lysa was quite drunk, and they had barely spoken the entire evening. The bedroom he’d been in earlier had no personal effects, so it’s probably a guest room.

_As fine a spot to wait as any._

That doesn’t mean Jon doesn’t feel silly sitting in a bedroom with no lights on for another two hours until the house quiets. He also has _no_ idea what to say if he gets caught. _Sorry, I’m an introvert and needed a moment. Then, I fell asleep._

 _Yeah,_ he wouldn’t believe that either.

Eventually, the sounds from outside quiet, and there’s no light under the door. Jon opens the door a crack and peeks through, confirming the foyer is darkened and empty. Lysa mentioned her husband was out of town. Apparently, her young son was home as well, but he’d been kept away from the party. In a house this size, she _had_ to have live-in servants. He didn’t get the impression the war diminished her wealth, either.

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, “I know how to plan an op. Get the painting; secure a route of egress.”

A sense of confidence settles over Jon as he steps into the hall. He’s not _completely_ rusty from loafing around Winterfell. _This won’t be so bad._ The location of his quarry is already known, so that’s one variable down. The plush rug masks his footfalls as he works his way around the balcony to the landing where the painting is hanging.

It’s then, to Jon’s utter shock, that he sees someone reaching up to their full height to pull the painting, frame and all, off the wall.

Unable to stop himself, Jon blurts, much too loudly, _“What_ are you doing?”

The person turns, “I’m stealing a painting. What are _you_ doing?”

The only illumination is the shafts of moonlight coming through the doors to the terrace. Not that the light matters--Jon knows that honeyed voice, and the ridiculous name of the man that bears it. 

_Satin._

Jon states the obvious, “I don’t think both of us can do that.”

Satin takes his hands off the frame and takes a couple steps toward Jon, “I do suppose if we both want to take it, we’re at a bit of an impasse. I didn’t take Jon Snow for an art thief.”

“I--” Jon starts, “I’m not an art thief. I’m just…”

“...Stealing a painting?”

“Exactly.”

Satin clicks his tongue reproachfully, “That’s a _bit_ of an issue because I’m quite set on taking this painting myself.”

“You _can’t._ I need it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to destroy it.”

 _“Destroy it?”_ Satin’s voice is much too loud. “You’d _burn_ the _The Song of Earth?_ That’s a crime itself.”

“It’s not--”

 _Real._ Only the chandelier light flips on and Lysa’s voice calls out in the foyer, “Sweetrobin, is that you? It’s much past your bedtime.”

Jon can see Lysa at the bottom of the staircase. If she ascends to the first landing and looks across, she’ll see them. He grabs Satin’s wrist and pulls him back into the empty bedroom.

Satin tries to free himself from Jon’s grip, _“What_ are you doing?” 

_“Hiding,”_ Jon hisses, “so we don’t get arrested.”

“I could’ve been outside with the painting before she turned on the light if you hadn’t interrupted me.”

Jon’s reply is a contrary and definitely untrue, “I could’ve too.”

Satin laughs and, even with the situation, it’s as warm and inviting as the night before. This is the worst possible time to be thinking about kissing; a wandering mind could be a death sentence.

Lysa calls out “Sweetrobin?” again, only much closer this time, and a door down the hall opens and closes.

“She’s checking the rooms,” Satin whispers; his eyes dart around the darkened bedroom. “We should-- _come here.”_

Jon’s the one being tugged this time. Satin opens a door to what is obviously a closet and shoves Jon inside. Calling it a walk-in closet would be generous; the two of them end up _quite_ pressed together against some clothes.

The door opens, and the light flips on. They half-hear a conversation between Lysa and someone who must be a guard.

“She’s having someone patrol the landing,” Satin whispers, _“and_ she left the door open."

“We should wait a bit.”

“A _bit._ Our exit just got _a lot_ more complicated.”

Jon’s not scared, but he _is_ filled with this unique sort of jittery exhilaration. It’s a bit like the feeling before a fight--like he’s storing up energy that needs an outlet. Satin smashed against him isn’t helping; he smells _amazing_ , and he’s just short enough that Jon’s nose is buried in his hair.

“We’ll manage,” Jon means to sound reassuring.

“The real question is how do we pass the time?”

_“Quietly.”_

Satin places his hands on Jon’s chest; he’s wearing a shirt and a jacket, yet the touch feels like a brand through the fabric. His heart races enough for Satin to feel, certainly. It’s too dark to see, but Jon _thinks_ Satin is looking at him. “Do you like challenges?”

“I’ve risen to the occasion many times.”

There’s a warm laugh. Then, Satin is kissing him, grabbing the lapels of Jon’s jacket to tug him down so they meet. It’s unexpected, so Jon freezes. Satin pulls back and whispers into his ear, “The challenge is staying quiet.”

Jon’s mouth feels like sandpaper when he replies, “Understood.”

The space is _much_ too cramped. Jon finds himself pressed against the closet wall, back cushioned by some manner of clothing. Satin moves one hand to Jon’s cheek and holds him there. The kiss is nearly bruising in its intensity, and when Satin parts Jon’s lips with his tongue, Jon nearly ruins their hideout. Satin is vibrant and busy, and by the time he pulls back, Jon’s tie is loosened and he’s _certain_ his neck is going to look like a teenager’s at a movie theater.

Jon’s breathing like he ran a mile, and he knows he’s not _that_ out of shape. “What the _hell_ was that for?”

"We're stuck for a bit." Satin’s lips are still against the underside of Jon’s jaw, _“_ And I just wanted to.”


	2. Part II: Satin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satin was genuinely surprised to see Jon trying to steal _The Song of Earth._ He’ll ask, once they get out of the sticky situation they’re in, why Jon was trying to take the painting. The man clearly isn’t a thief; the only thing Jon accomplished was ruining Satin’s chance at stealing the painting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, subscribed, and left kudos! Here's part two from Satin's perspective.

The intel is a bit less concrete than Satin prefers. The broker is a Northern woman named Sansa Stark who’s checking into the King’s Landing Grand Hotel this afternoon. The painting isn’t arriving with her; it _should’ve_ gotten here two days ago via courier and is being held in the hotel safe.

 _That’s_ not a great venue for getting the painting. The hotel safe will have a guard constantly and will take too long to crack. Satin won’t get a window of opportunity that fortuitous.

_No, what I need is more information._

The lobby is busy on a Friday afternoon. Satin orders a drink from the bar and takes a position on one of the plush couches placed in artful clusters. He has a clear view of the twin revolving doors leading in from the valet. He looked at the picture of Sansa Stark enough times that he’ll certainly recognize her when she comes in. _I’ve always had a good memory for faces._ Her auburn hair will make her stand out, too.

It takes the better part of an hour, and a second cocktail, before Sansa Stark comes into the lobby in a monochrome dress and a sun hat. _Elegant._ She’s accompanied by a woman with dark hair, certainly her younger sister Arya Stark. Satin wasn’t expecting a third person in the party, but there’s a man with him, dark-haired like Arya.

An unknown variable _could_ be a hurdle, or perhaps an advantage; Satin will have to wait and see.

Sansa and Arya Stark meet the buyer for dinner. Satin isn’t shocked to see Littlefinger in their company--the man had his fingers in every pie in the city, some more illegal than others. He was also a known friend of the Tullys, and from the composition of people sitting at the table, the buyer seems to be none other than Sansa’s aunt Lysa Arryn.

Satin requests a table close enough that he can listen to their conversation. Littlefinger is predictably quiet, but Lysa can’t hide her excitement over the purchase of _The Song of Earth._

She tells Satin everything he needs to know about the window of opportunity he’s looking for.

* * *

At the bar that night, Jon Snow tells him _a lot_ less.

It’s a bit of a shame because Satin knows the right approach to get to a man like Jon. He can tell a lot by looking at a person. Even before Satin knew his name, he knew Jon wasn’t invited to dinner, indicating _some_ disconnect between him and his siblings. It’s unclear, at first, but when Satin asks his name, _Snow_ is all the clarity he needs--Jon’s a bastard.

Jon’s quiet, and probably has a bit of a chip on his shoulder. There’s something about the set of his shoulders that tells Satin he’s principled. Men like that are easy to take down; all Satin has to do is flatter him in the right way, and he’ll sing like a canary. 

Only after a few minutes of conversation, Jon reveals _nothing_ except that he’s straightforward and prickly in a charming way. He’s handsome, too, with his dark brown hair and gray eyes. He’s just a bit taller, and Satin likes that, too.

 _He seems dependable,_ Satin thinks, _a rarity among men._

Satin isn’t after anything except the contact when he kisses Jon.

* * *

A day later, smashed against Jon in a closet in one of Lysa Arryn’s uncountable guest bedrooms, Satin thoughts are much the same. 

Satin was _genuinely_ surprised to see Jon trying to steal _The Song of Earth._ He’ll ask, once they get out of the sticky situation they’re in, _why_ Jon was trying to take the painting. The man _clearly_ isn’t a thief; the only thing Jon accomplished was ruining Satin’s chance at stealing the painting. 

_I’ll just try again tomorrow._ The harder the target, the more fun.

There’s no tactical advantage to kissing Jon; he doesn’t seem to have any new information about the painting, nor will currying his favor grant Satin any boon. There’s only the fact that Jon wraps an arm around his back in a sturdy grip and slides their tongues together. When Jon sighs, a bit too loud for their precarious position, Satin presses a finger to his lips and _certainly_ sucks a bruise on the underside of his jaw at the edge of his beard.

Satin is _very_ hot and bothered by the time he chances opening the closet door. He’s used to having the upper hand in a seduction, and not to be egotistical, but he’s _pretty_ damn good at it. It’s part of the job; most women, _and_ men, were startingly simple to get to.

Jon Snow made him fucking _blush;_ thankfully, the room is quite dark.

“We’re going out the window,” Satin decides. Lysa’s guard is staring at the painting, and they won’t get a better opportunity. After pulling the blinds aside, the lock on the window clicks, and Satin pushes the window up. “It’s probably a ten-foot drop, but there’s a trellis that looks like it’ll hold.”

He expects Jon to balk, but he says, “Let me go first; I’ll spot you.”

“I’m not a damsel climbing down a tower.”

Jon rolls his eyes, “I didn’t say you were. We should be quick and watch for security cameras.”

Satin stares openly as Jon goes out the window and down the trellis. He’s _quite_ adept at it, and Satin wishes the lighting was better. When Jon reaches the bottom, Satin climbs down behind him. Jon holds out a hand when he’s close to the bottom, but Satin doesn’t take it.

“See?”

“I...yes. I did, indeed, see,” Jon replies.

“Come on.”

Again, he expects Jon to be a hindrance as they exit the Arryn’s perfectly manicured lawn. When they crouch under the window, Jon puts a hand on his shoulder and points to the corner of the house. 

“Security camera there, probably. If we hug the wall, it won’t get us.”

“Provided anyone is watching the feed,” Satin replies.

“Caution never hurts. A lack of it can get you killed.”

Satin glances back and grins, “A bit dramatic, but sure.”

“Not dramatic,” Jon’s tone is serious, “I’ve seen men die over haste.”

The next quip dies on Satin’s tongue. _Once we’re out of here, Jon Snow merits some personal questions._

* * *

They hail a cab a few blocks down Rhaenys’s Hill. Satin might’ve chanced it earlier, but Jon seems the cautious type. The walk is good for clearing his head, anyway.

“The King’s Landing Grand Hotel,” Jon tells the driver. Then, as if he remembers Satin’s existence, he adds, “Where do you want to go?”

Satin shrugs and leans back in the seat, “The Grand is a fine destination; one of their bars should still be open.”

Jon is silent as a septon from the Quiet Isle the entire ride. He makes a fist with his right hand and repeats the gesture. _No gloves, which means he’d leave his fingerprints all over the house._ Yet, Jon knew to look for cameras. Granted, three dozen people touched _every_ surface in that house, including the frame of the painting, so it would be hard to pin a crime from prints alone. When Jon extends his fingers fully, palm up on his thigh, Satin notices the raised scarring.

 _Another odd detail._ Jon’s a puzzle Satin can’t quite fit together.

Satin loops his arm through Jon’s when they exit the cab in front of the hotel. “Have a nightcap with me.”

“...It’s three in the morning.”

“That’s _exactly_ nightcap hour.”

Jon orders brandy, which Satin thinks suits him and isn’t a terribly fun choice. Satin orders coffee laced with hazelnut liqueur and extra whipped cream.

“The point of a nightcap is to help you sleep,” Jon points at the mug, “That’ll keep you up,” 

Satin laughs, “The point of a nightcap is to get a person into your room.”

“I….suppose,” Jon takes a sip of brandy, “that’s one way to view it.”

“I think I’m making a misstep by _not_ viewing it that way at this very moment.”

Satin would bet a dragon-worthy hoard of gold that Jon ducks his head to hide a fucking _blush._ The beard hides the rest; Satin’s never been much for beards, but he keeps thinking of Jon’s scraping against his skin when they kissed. Telling someone what he desires isn’t hard, but the earnest curiosity he feels for Jon leaves him uneasy.

“You, um,” Jon shakes his head minutely, “Do you even have a room?”

“No, but you do. Room 1522--a suite with a view.”

 _“How_ do you know that?”

“I listened when you were checking in. People are _so_ forthcoming if you know where to look and listen.” Satin takes a drink of his coffee and lowers his voice. The bar is empty, but that can make eavesdropping all the easier. “Jon, _why_ were you trying, pretty poorly I might add, to steal _The Song of Earth?”_

“Why were _you?”_

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question,” Satin leans further across the table. “You have a trustworthy face, so I’ll tell you.”

“Alright.”

“I’m an art thief.” 

Satin’s never _actually_ told anyone that. He had no family and few friends. The only people who knew were those he had enough dirt on to guarantee their silence--usually the person paying him. He lived his life with discretion, and people paid their weight in gold dragons for his skills. 

“That’s _gotta_ be bullshit,” Jon pauses, “but I _did_ see you trying to do exactly that, so…”

“Not bullshit. I’ve never been caught before, either; although, _you_ didn’t seem like a pro.”

Jon’s right hand, resting on the table, curls into a fist again. “I’m not a thief; I just need to get _that_ specific painting.”

Satin rests his chin on his hand and smiles; Jon swallows like he has a lump in his throat. “Your sister is the one that found it. Lysa Arryn paid _quite_ a sum, and I wouldn’t want to cross Littlefinger.”

Of _all_ the possible responses to come out of Jon’s mouth, the last one Satin expects is, “It’s a forgery.”

 _“Really?”_ He doesn’t even try to mask his incredulousness; there’s _no way_ his intel could’ve been that off. “What makes you think so?”

“My little sister painted it; she’s been doing it for _months,_ and Littlefinger finds buyers.”

“And you ruined my chance at stealing it tonight. It moves to a museum tomorrow.”

“I know,” Jon sounds a bit panicked, and he runs his left hand over his face, “They’ll test it, and Sansa and Arya will get caught. I was stationed at the Wall for _years,_ and they never told me they needed money. By the time I got home, they’d been doing it for _months.”_

 _A soldier._ That explained Jon’s weird proficiency at sneaking off the grounds _and_ that he didn’t think to wear gloves. It explained the scarring on his hand, too. Satin wonders what other burdens he shoulders. A bastard surname, at least; something they have in common.

“Jon,” Satin, on impulse, reaches across the table and takes his right hand; the scar tissue on his palm is thick, but when Satin squeezes, Jon returns it. “I can get the painting before the museum tests it.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Satin shrugs, “I’m feeling magnanimous.”

“Will your buyer come after you?”

“Nah, they’re far away in Essos, and they won’t want a forgery. Not getting paid will suck a bit, but I’ll manage.”

* * *

Jon’s younger sister, Arya, looks at the two of them and says, simply, _“What the fuck?”_

They’re eating breakfast at a cafe a few blocks from the hotel. On a Sunday morning, it’s _extremely_ crowded, which suits Satin’s aims just fine. As long as they don’t scream from the rooftops, no one will listen to their conversation.

Satin smiles and punctures the sunny side up egg atop his hash. Jon, next to him, crosses his arms and looks especially dour with his brows meeting in a scowl.

“I told you I’d take care of it,” Jon says, “So, I took care of it.”

“I wasn’t expecting _take care of it_ to mean finding an art thief,” Arya replies, “And are you _really_ named Satin, or is that some sort of...moniker?”

“If needed, I choose plain pseudonyms. It’s convenient that people think the real one is fake.”

“With a name like an exotic dancer,” Arya’s boyfriend, Gendry, laughs, “...Or maybe a call girl.”

It took a number of years, but Satin has grown into his name. It’s usually to his benefit that people think he’s lying. A name that sounds fake has its uses.

Jon looks like he’s about to call Gendry out, but Satin laughs, “Both of those professions have been suggested.”

Arya turns to Jon, “Jon, how do you know he’s legit?”

“Because I caught him trying to steal the _The Song of Earth_ _.”_

“You didn’t catch me,” Satin corrects, “we...crossed paths. If anything, I caught _you.”_

Sansa pushes her giant sunglasses up her nose, “This flirting is _really_ darling, but I assume we’re going to come up with a _plan._ Unless your thief here got the painting last night and didn’t tell us, we still have a problem.”

Arya takes a bite of her waffle, “Trust Jon to try and help us out and end up with a boyfriend while _we’re_ still in deep shit.”

Jon opens his mouth, whether to protest or confirm, Satin can’t say. He doesn’t mind the implication, so he leans a bit closer to Jon. His entire posture stiffens, and he sits ramrod straight in the wicker chair. _What would it take to get him to loosen up?_ A kiss managed, just a bit. Satin puts his hand just above Jon’s knee under the table, and Jon jumps enough to rattle his water glass.

Satin can’t stop himself from smiling; he doesn’t move his hand from Jon’s jeans.

Beside Arya, Gendry, wraps an arm around her and squeezes. “We’ll figure it out, Arya.”

 _Optimistic._ If they need to punch their way out of a situation, Gendry might be their man. Satin would consider a situation like that a failure. Finesse can obviate any challenge.

“This is easy,” Satin says, “we just need a solid plan and some coordination, which mostly includes all of _you_ staying out of my way.”

“You’re a stranger,” Sansa’s expression is hidden by her sunglasses, “so forgive me if I don’t want to leave my fate _entirely_ in your hands.”

“Of course not,” Satin looks to Sansa, “I assume you’re accompanying the painting when it’s transported from the Arryn’s to the museum?”

“Aunt Lysa expects me there at four this afternoon. She wants to have drinks first before the people from the museum arrive.”

“She’s _really_ feeling herself over this.” Arya wrinkles her nose. “I know she’s Mother’s sister, but I don’t like her that much.”

“The painting isn’t making it to the museum.” A plan is forming in Satin’s mind. _Simple is best._ “Sansa, you’re going to keep Lysa distracted. She’s a lightweight.”

“And _how_ do you know that?” Jon asks.

Satin shrugs, “I watched her last night. Three champagnes, and she was _gone.”_

“Our new thief friend is right,” Sansa smiles, “And I can keep her occupied.”

“Perfect. Jon and I will do the rest.”

Jon slums in the seat like a popped balloon, “Why me?”

“We’re partners, aren’t we?”

“Do you need a getaway driver?” Gendry asks. “I saw that in a movie once.”

Arya kisses him on the cheek, “You’d look badass.”

Sansa rolls her eyes at them, “I’m sure we don’t--”

“Actually,” Satin replies, “we _could_ use that.”

* * *

They part ways after breakfast with a plan to meet again in the afternoon. When Jon makes to leave with Arya, Sansa, and Gendry, Satin grabs his hand.

“I need you, to...um, go over our part of the plan.”

“Oh, okay.”

Sansa and Arya snicker and wave in a way that makes them seem more like sisters than anything else he’s seen.

“Your sisters are nice. Arya’s boyfriend seems--”

“I don’t like him,” Jon interrupts.

“For a real reason, or because he’s dating your little sister?”

“A rea--” Jon shakes his head. “No, not really. She was a little girl, and then I left, and now she’s...an adult.”

“An art forging adult.”

“...Yeah, don’t remind me.”

“She’s good, too.” Satin has seen _a lot_ of art. “When the museum tests the paint composition, they’ll know, but to the naked eye...”

“I’m impressed, but also _so_ angry at her.”

A little pang of loneliness stabs at Satin uncomfortably; to have people to worry about, or to have people concerned he was making bad choices. Being on either end of that spectrum seems so nice. 

An afternoon in Jon’s might ease the feeling.

“Jon, we’ve got,” he looks down at his watch, “five hours to pass. Go on a date with me.”

“A _date?”_

Jon always sputters when Satin flirts with him; right now, he looks a bit incredulous.

“A date,” Satin repeats, “I assume you’ve been on one before?”

 _“Yes._ Although, not since I was a teenager.”

 _“Really?”_

“There was a girl, at the Wall, but dates weren’t really--”

“I get it.”

They start walking aimlessly down the city block in the direction of the bay. Satin knows King’s Landing as well as any other city, but he’s never really _experienced_ it. He’s unsure what a date should look like.

 _“Five hours,”_ Jon says, “Gods, I’ve never liked waiting. I wish I had a cigarette.”

“I can’t help you there.”

“I haven’t had one since I got home.” He shakes his head, “I only smoked if someone handed me one, Everyone did, especially if the mood was tense.”

At the bay, Jon buys bread from a man on the boardwalk and ends up with seagulls around him. They crowd at his feet, and Satin wishes he had a camera to capture the moment. Jon feeds all of them and chuckles when they squawk at him.

When the gulls realize Jon’s empty-handed, he comes to stand by Satin at the railing. “At the bar, when you kissed me, how did you know I wouldn’t punch you?”

“Lots of practice observing,” Satin grins, “You telegraph everything pretty loudly, too.”

Jon ducks his head, “You’re the first stranger to notice that about me.” 

“Only women approach you?”

“Not exactly,” Jon shrugs, “I guess I’m not used to...civilian life. I’ve never put myself in a position to _be_ approached at a bar.”

“But you’re good with it?” Satin should’ve asked this question more explicitly earlier; especially since he’s starting to _care._ Especially when kissing Jon held no advantage, yet he _still_ wanted to repeat it over and over. “Men, I mean.”

Jon gives him a little smile, “Yeah, I’m good with it.”

* * *

Jon made it sound like five hours was an indeterminate amount of time to pass, but it’s over long before Satin wants it to be. He hasn’t had enough of Jon, of leaning into his shoulder or linking their arms together. Satin’s accustomed to observing people closely, so he notices a dozen tiny details about Jon that make him want to know him better.

He’s cautious in all his movements. He looks both ways when the street light is green, and his eyes sweep over any building they enter. His privileged upbringing comes through in his knowledge of food, and wine, and clothes, but not art. Jon knows all the things Satin learned to pretend he’d been born accustomed to. Jon’s a bit moody and dour, but he listens when Satin speaks.

In reverse of the night before, they take a cab to Rhanys’s Hill and stop a few blocks from the Arryn’s house. Jon tips the driver a generous amount, and it makes Satin think even more of him.

“Are you nervous?”

Jon nods, “I was wondering what would give me that feeling again--apparently, it’s premeditated theft.”

“All the high you need.”

“Is thrill seeking why you do this?”

“No. When I was younger, I just...got wrapped up in it.” There’s not time to tell Jon the entirety, and Satin isn’t sure he wants to. “It’s a long story.’

“So you don’t enjoy it?”

“I do,” he replies, “It just gets a little taxing. Well, that and the whole _being a wanted criminal_ bit.”

“Satin,” Jon’s hand on his shoulder is a warm weight. “If there’s time, later, and you want to talk--”

The kindness is almost too much, so Satin turns to the task at hand; the thing he _knows_ he’s good at. “Lysa and Sansa should already be drinking in the front parlor. We need to get into position and wait for Sansa’s signal. Do you remember what it is?”

Jon looks mildly offended, “I can remember orders. Several in a row, even.”

“Sorry, I’m not used to this...team environment.”

“Sansa is going to flip the lights in the downstairs bathroom when Lysa is drunk enough to not notice _anything.”_

“Good.” The compliment makes Jon smile; Satin _just_ stops himself from dragging him in for a kiss. It’s a distraction they don’t have time for. “Sansa will unlock the back door, and I’ll make my way to the balcony. The best exit is the one we used last night.”

“I’ll wait at the bottom of the trellis and spot you.”

“Gendry and Arya are waiting in the alley in the car. We’ll be _long_ gone before Lysa even notices the painting is gone.” Satin passes Jon a set of gloves, “Touch as little as possible, and don’t touch _anything_ barehanded.”

“I’m not a very good thief,” Jon says, “but to protect my sisters, even from their own stupid decisions, I can do it.”

It’s selfish to keep kissing Jon, but that _care,_ wanting the smallest sliver of it for himself, drives Satin forward. Strong arms catch him this time, and Satin pushes himself up on his toes to press their lips together. It could go on forever, but Satin pulls back just before he thinks he won’t be able to stop himself.

Satin drops his forehead to Jon’s collarbone. “Sorry, I just keep doing that.”

“I--it’s alright. I’m not sure I get why, but I don’t mind.”

_Because you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met._

“Ask me after,” Satin pulls away and rests his hands on Jon’s shoulders, “Let’s get your painting.”

* * *

Lysa’s drunken laughter echoes through the foyer of the house.

“We have another _hour_ before the painting is picked up, Aunt Lysa,” Sansa sounds like she’s telling her a conspiracy. “That sounds like enough time for another glass and more canapes.”

“I like you _so_ much better than Catelyn, Sansa,” Lysa slurs, “I was always jealous of Petyr’s affection for her, but I don’t have to worry about that with you. He sees you as a child.”

Satin winces as he closes the bedroom door; even without the full context of that, it doesn’t sound kind. Catelyn must be Sansa and Arya’s mother, but not Jon’s.

Sansa is silent for an awkward moment before she says, “Lord Baelish has been _so_ helpful. I’d never have found the painting without him.”

He continues listening to their conversation as he creeps along the landing and grows more impressed with Sansa. She _has_ to be offended, but none comes through in her tone. Lysa is _exactly_ where she needs to be, literally and figuratively. _Sansa could do this job._ In a way, she already was. He’d compliment her, but he’s pretty sure Jon would be less than thrilled with that encouragement.

The wooden frame on the painting is heavy; Satin uses the toe of his shoe to cushion the landing. Up close, the painting _really_ is impressive in its execution. Arya deserves praise, too, but that might be more dangerous than praising Sansa. He’s never been interested in forgeries, but if they teamed up, they could dupe _so_ many people.

 _Jon would kill me._ That has Satin smiling.

It’s much too cumbersome to take the frame, so Satin cuts the painting out of it. He takes as much care as usual; the crime scene will look odd if the canvas looks like it was mauled upon removal. When the canvas is free, Satin rolls it up and places the frame back on the wall.

 _It’s more amusing this way._ Satin always thought he needed something to leave--a calling card, a flower, _something_ so the person would know they’d been robbed by someone with skill. 

Lysa is giggling again as Satin enters the bedroom. He spares a moment to look wistfully at the closet. It’s silly when the person he was in the closet with is waiting for him outside the window. 

Jon looks up at the sound of the window scraping open. Then, he grins, and Satin finds it pretty devastating.

“You got it?”

 _“Embarrassingly_ easy, like stealing candy from a baby.”

“Don’t forget the security camera,” Jon points, “It’s daylight, too. It’d be shitty to fuck up right at the end.”

“Thank you, master of heists.”

The last bit is simple--dodge the camera and get to the getaway car. Gendry is driving, and Arya’s in the front passenger seat. When Jon and Satin climb in the backseat, Arya grins at them.

 _“Shit,_ you actually got it?”

“I said I would.”

She punches Gendry in the arm and tells him to drive.

* * *

They decide to burn the painting in an alley in Flea Bottom.

Satin feels like _quite_ the philistine folding up the canvas into the smallest shape possible and stuffing it into a bag he’d left in Gendry’s car. Art, even forged, shouldn't be treated so roughly. 

“You’re really _quite_ good,” he tells Arya as they get out of the car, “Do something original.”

“I do,” Arya grins, “and I know I’m good. This just pays the bills.”

“There’s never been a truer statement.”

Jon, next to him, sighs and mumbles, “Don’t encourage her.”

Flea Bottom has no shortage of skeevy looking alleyways. Satin chooses one where no one is loitering. There’s an old metal drum that looks like it’s been used to burn things before. Maybe a group of homeless crowded around it during the colder months. He drops the canvas in and digs a match from the bag.

Once the canvas catches fire, Satin looks at Jon and says, “Now _this_ feels like a crime.”

“You mean the entire _rest_ of it didn’t?”

Satin shrugs, “Not really; it just felt like work.”

Jon just gives a weary sigh.

* * *

Littlefinger is shrewd, but he’s never met Satin, so turning his ear to his conversation with Sansa is easy enough. They make eye contact, just for a moment, and she maneuvers so Satin’s vantage point is even better.

“It’s such a shame,” Sansa shakes her head, “the police are swarming Aunt Lysa's house looking for the culprit."

Littlefinger smirks, "And you _really_ didn't hear anything?"

"Truly," Sansa sounds completely innocent, "We were drinking wine in the sitting room on the opposite side of the house. There's no way I could've heard."

"Lysa does laugh _quite_ loudly when she's had a bit too much."

"I think this is a sign, Lord Baelish," Sansa holds out her hand to him, "to end our partnership. Insurance will cover Aunt Lysa's losses, and there's no debt between us.”

_Smart. End on a high note._

"It's quite convenient, isn't it, Lady Sansa, that Arya's painting was stolen so close to it being transported to a museum?"

*The universe works in mysterious ways, Lord Baelish."

"I find that most things are _quite_ by someone's design. What will you do if the painting turns up?"

Sansa's smile makes a chill pass through Satin. "I don't think that will happen."

"You think you're clever, Lady Sansa; don't let it go to your head."

When Littlefinger leaves, Sansa turns to him and whispers, "Arya insists on ordering room service and celebrating our success. You're more than welcome."

Satin _wants_ to accept. He likes Jon's siblings, and he more-than-likes Jon. It will hurt all the more when they leave. _I should hop the next flight to Essos._ He could be in Volantis sipping a drink with an umbrella in it by this hour tomorrow. 

That's how Satin Flowers celebrates success. _Classy, but alone._

“Thanks,” he tells Sansa, “but I should get going. Probably. Hanging around after...it’s not a good idea. Increases the likelihood of being caught. Y’know.”

“Oh, okay.” A pause. “Jon would like it, I think, if you came.”

_That makes it worse._

“It’s not a good idea.”

“You should know that my brother is quite taken with you.” Sansa tilts her head and narrows her eyes; it feels like she’s looking into his soul. “Jon doesn’t--he’s always been quiet, and maybe a little sullen.”

“I didn’t get that impression at _all.”_

She laughs, “Arya calls him _prissy._ Jon takes a minute to warm up, and it’s been worse since he came home. He’s really dependable, though, and he’s kind.”

“I knew that immediately.”

“Anyway, if you change your mind; I’m sure you know what room we’re in. Room service is courtesy of Littlefinger’s gold dragons.”

Satin doesn’t join them, but he doesn’t leave, either. Instead, he makes a series of choices that start out fine enough but quickly go off the rails. He opens with going to the bar where he met Jon and ordering dinner and two drinks. Then, when he’s a little buzzed, he asks the concierge where the closest pharmacy is. It’s not sketchy enough for Satin’s liking, but the clerk doesn’t give him too many judgy looks when he buys a pack of condoms and some lube.

Finally, he goes back to the hotel and picks the lock on the door to Jon’s hotel room. He’s picked _lots_ of locks, but never has he genuinely cared about invading someone’s privacy. Sifting through a woman’s drawer of undergarments looking for jewelry he was paid to steal felt like less of a transgression than this.

The minibar has rum and coke, so Satin mixes himself one and sits on the edge of the bed. When the first one is gone, he makes himself another, and then another, and then another.

By the time he flops back on the bed, quite drunk, Satin’s last thought before he passes out is _there weren’t even any limes._

* * *

A lamp turns on right before Satin feels the bed dip next to him. He thought he was awake, but he didn’t hear Jon unlock the door or enter the room, so he must’ve been dozing.

When he opens his eyes, Jon is watching him.

“That’s _a lot_ of mini rum bottles.”

Satin groans, _“How_ many?”

“I see six,” Jon chuckles, “You picked the lock?”

“I’m a thief, Jon; it wasn’t hard.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jon says, “Sansa told me you turned down her invite because you were leaving.”

“Having a drink with a little umbrella in it on the beach in Volantis by this time tomorrow.” Satin tosses his arm over his face. “Rum and cola with no limes on a hotel bed is _quite_ a downgrade.”

“Does the lime matter _that_ much?”

Satin uncovers his face and sits up; the motion makes his head swim. “Jon, the lime is _everything.”_

“Do you want me to call for some? For the price of this room, they’ll bring me limes.”

 _“Gods,_ no. The moment has passed. Is there water?”

Jon gets up and returns with a bottle. Satin sits against the pillows and drains half the contents in one gulp; it helps a bit. 

“Satin, why are you here?”

“I--I don’t know, honestly,” he places the water on the bedside table. “I should’ve left. I never stick around after a job, but I thought how you’d be gone in the morning, and then I ended up here.”

Jon nods rapidly, as though _any_ of that was cogent. “And you wanted to be here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Satin is definitely still buzzed. “Is that weird?”

“No. I was...disappointed when Sansa said you declined. I wanted to at least thank you for getting us out of this.”

_“Us?”_

“Sansa and Arya and me.”

“You weren’t in their mess, but you acted like you were.”

Jon furrows his brow, “They’re my sisters; their problems are my problems.”

“Do you know how _fucking_ good that is?” Satin shuts his eyes; Jon is hard to look at, suddenly.

“Not really, no.” 

“You tried to commit a crime for them. Did you even hesitate?”

There’s a patch of silence; then, Jon says, “I just knew I had to take care of it.”

Satin opens his eyes, “They’re lucky to have you.”

The expression on Jon’s face is one Satin doesn’t understand. He looks concerned, and maybe a bit confused. Then, Jon’s moving closer to him on the bed. His eyes are an even nicer gray up close, like the sea before a storm. Kissing in the dark or right before breaking into a house didn’t allow for the opportunity to look.

“Satin, my flight doesn't leave for thirteen hours.”

“Do you…” Somehow, Satin manages to breathe, “...want to spend them with me?”

“Yeah,” Jon’s smile is too shy for Satin to be on the receiving end of. “I think I do.”

Satin never let Jon kiss him, so he decides to watch and wait. Jon doesn’t throw himself into it like he does; there’s enough time to count several beats of his heart. The kiss is slow, and dedicated _,_ and matches everything he’s learned about Jon over the last two days. Jon rests a hand on his shoulder and leans in closer. The desire to push forward is like an itch, but he _really_ wants to know what Jon will do.

The heat of Jon’s tongue snaps Satin’s patience, which was never great in the first place. He yanks at Jon’s clothes until he gets the hint and comes close. It’s not enough, so Satin wraps an arm around Jon’s back and pulls him closer yet. Being pressed against Jon in Lysa Arryn’s closet was exquisite, and the weight of him here is better yet.

Jon lets out a tiny, but _very_ satisfying, groan when Satin tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth. Satin wants to engender all manner of reactions in Jon--to spent the night unpacking the pieces of him. They’ll part in the morning, but he wants Jon to burn with the memory of it.

Jon has one hand braced on the pillows beside Satin’s head while the other cups his jaw. When Satin breaks the kiss, Jon is watching him with an intensity that makes him feel like he’s naked already. Jon moves a curious hand to Satin’s hair where it’s spread out over the pillow. It’s mussed from his drunken nap, but Jon’s fingers slide through the curls.

He’s smiling, and Satin’s unsure why. “What?”

“It’s as soft as I imagined.” Jon sounds amused.

“I take good care of it,” Satin always liked his hair; it’s just long enough to hit his shoulders, and he _finally_ found a routine to keep it from frizzing. “You imagined touching my hair?”

“It’s pretty,” Jon shakes his head, _“Ugh,_ that sounds...lame.”

“It doesn’t. Thank you.” 

Satin reaches between them for the buttons on Jon’s shirt. Jon left his jacket on the chair, and Satin is glad for it. He tackles just enough to slide his hands beneath the fabric; it’s really something he should’ve done two nights ago. They could’ve spent three nights this way instead of only one.

He pushes the fabric aside and traces his fingers over Jon’s collarbone. “I was flirting with you to get info the other night.”

“I know.”

“But when I _saw_ you, I thought I’d be happy if you invited me to your room. You didn’t have anything to tell me, and I didn’t care.” He unhooks another button and starts tugging the shirt loose from Jon’s pants. “I almost asked myself.”

“You should’ve.” Jon nearly jumps out of Satin’s arms when he rubs his thumb over his nipple. “I thought about it when I got back here, like why couldn’t I invite you? I told myself it would’ve been inappropriate because you hadn’t even told me your name.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“That I’ve been a coward since I got home. I’m waiting for life to start again, and to feel normal, but I’m not working for it.”

“Those are _deep_ thoughts in the face of a hookup.”

“Arya and Sansa say I’m too serious. _Dour_ and _sullen_ are their favorites.”

Satin kisses him this time, laughing into the gesture. He wants, desperately, for Jon to touch him; the building feeling is making itself known by an aching in his cock. If he spreads his thighs, he can hook his leg over Jon’s and pull him where he wants him. He laughs again when he notices Jon is feeling just the same. Satin pushes his hips up, pressing them together, and Jon inhales a sharp breath.

“I’d be embarrassed if it was just me.” Satin kisses Jon on the cheek before anchoring a hand in his hair. It’s shorter than his own, but still long enough to run his fingers through.

Satin pushes again, and Jon grunts, “It’s not just you.”

Clothes are in the way of what he wants to touch, so Satin finishes the task of Jon’s shirt, throwing it across the bed. His own lacks buttons, so he gets it off with some help from Jon. The gesture has the added benefit of contact _and_ friction; it’s so good that Satin feels dizzy with it when he collapses back to the pillows.

Jon is all warm skin and weight above him; Satin runs his hands over Jon’s back to take in as much as he can.

His lips are near Satin’s ear when he whispers, “This might get me punched in the wrong company, but is it weird to say you’re beautiful?”

“Would the men you fucked at the Wall not appreciate that compliment?”

“Definitely not; it would hurt their pride.”

There was a time when Satin was more self-conscious. He knew what he looked like, and he knew the type of men and women he attracted. He’d lived with unwanted advances since he was old enough to understand what they were. Eventually, Satin learned to spin it to his advantage, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

Jon is sincere in both his words and desire.

“From you, it’s fine.”

* * *

Kissing is torture, but Jon’s hand on his cock might be a higher form of it. 

They’d removed the last of their clothes in a frenzy, and Satin expected to be face down on the bed by now. Instead, Jon touches him--fingers and lips and tongue everywhere he can get to, until Satin is a gasping wreck on the bed, until he’s seeing stars and cursing Jon and his ancestors for teasing him. 

He expects a quick fuck; what he gets is every maddening, wonderful expression of Jon’s resolute nature.

Jon’s beard is a pleasant abrasion, and his hands are strong and capable. Shamed by the unabashedness of his outburst, by his utterly atypical lack of control, Satin covers his face with his arm and thrusts with nothing to guide him but Jon cradling his hip.

 _“Gods,_ you’re a bully. Is this an army thing?”

Satin’s never heard Jon sound smug. “Thirteen hours is just a _long_ time.”

That confidence adds something that Satin can’t articulate, only that it works for him and makes Jon even more arousing. His eyes fly open when Jon settles next to him and circles his cock with his right hand.

“The scarring--my grip’s not good,” he whispers, “I’ll switch, if it’s--”

“N-no,” Satin shakes his head against the pillow; his hair is in his mouth, and Jon’s tender when he pushes it away. “Touch us both.”

Jon nods, and then takes them both in his hand. The pressure is perfect, as is the friction of their cocks rubbing together. Jon rests his forehead against Satin’s, and when they kiss it’s messy and slow. Satin likes that Jon loses his composure a bit, and the rhythm falters. It feels genuine, and not like a performance. He didn’t know how badly he needed that until just this moment. 

Satin wants to say something, to tell Jon how good it feels that he’s bringing them both such pleasure, but he can’t get the words out, especially when Jon speeds up. The best he can do is stumble Jon’s name against his lips and arch into his hand.

Eventually, Jon releases himself, but not Satin. He slows his pace, which is a welcome torture because Satin is _certain_ Jon’s about to ask him something. Jon sounds a bit hoarse when he says, “I’m going to come if I keep--which is fine, but I didn’t know what you wanted to do.”

“Fuck me,” Satin gasps, _“please.”_

Jon stills his hand entirely, “You’re certain?”

Satin is so certain that he flops away from Jon and buries his face in the pillow. He doesn’t go so far as to wave his ass in the air, but it’s close.

 _“Yes,”_ is muffled into the pillow, in case his behavior wasn’t clear.

Jon starts laughing. He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “This, _uh--_ I wasn’t expecting this, so I don’t have--”

“At this _exact_ moment, I’d let you spit into your hand and--”

“I’m _not_ doing that!” Jon sounds quite shrill.

“Call the front desk, then,” Satin sounds extra impatient, “For the price of the rooms, they’ll bring some.”

“I’m not doing _that,_ either.”

Satin pulls his face out of the pillow and looks at Jon, who’s very red in the face. “Check my bag.”

Jon does, and if he wonders why Satin has a newly-purchased pharmacy bag of lube and prophylactics, he’s gracious enough not to ask. Satin wouldn’t want to answer, anyway; it reeks of the desperate attraction he’s not sure he’s ready to voice. 

“Why didn’t you just say--?”

Instead of telling Jon the truth, he laughs and says, “The expression on your face was too funny.”

* * *

Jon outdoes himself, but Satin’s uncertain he realizes it.

If Jon’s hand on his cock was torture, the two fingers Jon has inside of him are the cruelest, most wonderful sensation Satin’s ever experienced. He’s been fucked before, sure, and he’s even had lovers who were diligent, but Jon keeps such a slow pace that he feels like he’s going to _die._

Satin keeps saying _more_ into the pillow, keeps shamelessly backing up into Jon’s fingers seeking more, and Jon just...isn’t listening. He wouldn’t have minded the burn of a fast fuck--it would give him something to remember on his way to Volantis when Jon was long gone. Every nerve ending is on fire, and Jon keeps hitting that point inside him that makes him feel like the magnetic poles of the planet are reversing.

“Jon,” he pants, “I’m ready.”

“But I’m not,” Jon replies, “Let me take my time.”

As if for emphasis, he adds a third finger; there’s enough lube that it’s an easy slide. Satin tries to move, and Jon grounds him with a hand on his hip. The third finger seems overkill when it comes to preparation, but _fuck_ , it feels good. Satin _really_ prefers to maintain his composure, _especially_ in this position, but Jon’s stripped him down to a squirming, needy mess.

He’s not seducing Jon; he’s just reacting. _Maybe that’s why it’s so good._

“How are you--” Satin pauses to moan, “--so _good_ with your hands?”

When he glances back, Jon looks boyish and embarrassed, which is pretty amusing when his hand is three-fingers deep in Satin’s ass.

“I just do what I like,” he glances away, “Can we…”

In his mind, Satin sees their positions reversed, and it’s so acutely arousing that he drops his forehead to the pillow, overwhelmed. _Is thirteen hours, even less now, enough for that?_ Satin is sure going to fucking try.

 _“Absolutely._ And round two is mine.”

“Round...two?”

“Were you under the impression I was only good for one go?”

Jon removes his fingers, which Satin misses immediately. “I...wasn’t under any impression, honestly.”

“You’re the one who said we had thirteen hours,” Satin looks back and grins, “I don’t plan to sleep.”

The nod Jon gives him makes Satin feel like he just gave an order. “How do you want to?”

Many permutations flash through Satin’s mind--one more delightfully indecent than the next. What matters, at the moment, is that Jon will be gone tomorrow, so Satin wants to see him. 

“Sit against the pillows.”

Jon listens and slides the condom on. Satin crawls up and throws one leg over Jon’s lap. He steadies Satin with a hand on his hip. Jon’s eyes are dark in the light of the bedside lamp. When Satin slides down onto Jon’s cock, his heart feels like a jackhammer in his chest. Jon keeps his hands on Satin’s hips as he settles into a comfortable position. It’s not really movement, but the settling feels pretty damn delightful, too.

“Is this your preference?” Jon wraps an arm around Satin’s back.

“I want to look at you.”

Jon flushes again; Satin’s never met a man or a woman he finds so charming. He takes Jon’s right hand and threads their fingers together, lamenting they won’t ever be close enough to ask how the injury happened. He imagines it’s something heroic. Jon won’t get the chance to ask about Satin’s life, either. Satin thinks he could tell Jon, about his mother, and being orphaned, and filtching the wallet of the wrong person in Oldtown. 

He rolls his hips, and Jon closes his eyes and tips his head back against the headboard. At the second roll, Jon wrenches his grip tighter on Satin’s fingers. He touches Jon’s skin with his unoccupied hand. There’s no hurry, so Satin keeps his pace slow and watches and Jon comes blissfully apart at the seams. Satin feels it, too--the fullness and the burst of pleasure at the end of each rocking motion. It’s an ache that he doesn’t want to end.

Part of him wants to shut his eyes or drop his head to Jon’s shoulder and let the tide of pleasure drag him out. More, he wants to burn in his memory the way Jon’s brow furrows and how he gasps, so he keeps watching. Later, when he’s alone again, Satin can remember he made someone look like that.

Usually, Satin likes control over the situation. Maybe he’s a little afraid to leave his pleasure up to someone else, a little afraid to be vulnerable in the face of being so known. He doesn’t regret the choice in position, but he suddenly wants Jon to take the lead. 

“Jon,” Satin whispers, “Can you open your eyes?”

As Satin leans in close, Jon listens. When their eyes meet, Satin wants desperately to be _seen._ He wants to trust Jon enough for it to be that way. The intensity in Jon’s gaze makes Satin drop his head onto Jon’s chest.

“I’m looking,” Jon puts a hand in his hair, “Are you okay?”

Satin nods, “Just a little dizzy. Can you…?”

The pace is faster than Satin’s, but it feels right to let Jon take him and hold him close. His strokes reach a place so deep inside him that Satin grabs handfuls of the pillows and cries out into Jon’s ear. When Jon comes, he says Satin’s name and clings to him.

The friction of his cock trapped between them isn’t enough. When Jon recovers, he slides out of Satin and disposes of the condom.

“Satin, let me take care of you, now.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, and Jon kneels before him. When Jon puts his mouth on him, all Satin can think is _I don’t want him to leave._

* * *

The first rays of dawn are in the sky by the time Satin falls asleep with his head resting against Jon’s shoulder. They talk a little, but Satin’s afraid to ask too many questions--the time of their parting grows closer every moment, and the more he knows Jon, the harder it’s going to be.

When Satin wakes, Jon is still asleep and the clock reads a few minutes after nine. 

_Three hours._

He could wake Jon, and they could have sex again; Satin doesn’t care how sore he’s going to be. He cares more that if he kisses Jon again, he’s not going to be able to let him go. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, memorizing Jon’s soft breathing and the way his hair is mussed against the pillow.

In the end, he sets an alarm on the bedside clock for just under an hour from now. Jon shouldn’t miss his flight back home. After Satin dresses, he finds a notepad and pen with the hotel emblem on them and sits at the desk. Once his note is written, he leaves it on the pillow and, in a childishly sentimental gesture, presses a kiss into Jon’s hair.

The note contains the address to Satin’s condo in Volantis and the words _I’ll be there. Come and catch me again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue is next!


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya points an accusing finger at Jon, who’s sitting at the table picking at his breakfast. “It’s been three weeks, Jon; you’re fucking moping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the end. Thank you for the comments and kudos; it's nice to see some rarepair support!

Arya points an accusing finger at Jon, who’s sitting at the table picking at his breakfast. “It’s been three weeks, Jon; you’re fucking _moping.”_

“I’m not moping, Arya.”

“You’ve been wearing that outfit for three days, and you haven’t left the house,” she counters, “That’s moping.”

“I’m...relaxing.”

“You’ve never relaxed a day in your life. Even when we were kids, you were always _so_ serious.” She sits at the adjacent chair and helps herself to the cereal and milk. “And relaxing doesn’t have this...y’know what it is, Jon, it’s like a wet blanket.”

Jon takes a bite of cereal and chews as loudly as possible; it’s passive aggressive, and he doesn’t care. “I’m fine, Arya.”

“I’m gonna knock you out and put your ass on a flight to Volantis. You’ll regain consciousness halfway over the Sunset Sea, and it’ll be too late to turn back.”

“I can’t just _go_ to Volantis. That’s crazy.”

Sansa takes the moment to peak her head in the kitchen door. “Why, _exactly,_ is it crazy?”

“Because people don’t just fly halfway across the known world for someone they spent a weekend with. Someone who _left before I woke up.”_

“After a night of _amazing_ sex.” Sansa takes a seat at the table. Thankfully, Rickon is already at school and can’t overhear this wholly inappropriate conversation. 

“I _never_ said it was amazing.”

“You didn’t need to,” Arya jabs her spoon at him, “we _heard_ you.”

 _I hate both of you._ Except that Jon doesn’t, not even a little bit. He’d kill a hundred men for them; he’d become a shitty art thief for them. 

“There’s _no_ way. You were three floors above me.”

“But we _would’ve_ heard if we’d been in the hall,” Sansa says.

Arya follows it up with, “And maybe we were. How would you know?”

Jon covers his face with his hands, _“Please_ stop. I’m not going to Volantis.”

 _But I want to. So, so badly._ It was foolish to miss someone he only spent three days with, but _gods,_ Jon did. The three weeks since he arrived back at Winterfell were torturously slow. He’s felt aimless ever since returning from the Wall, but this is different. Since Ygritte, Jon had forgotten what it was like to want to be close to someone, to want to know them and share with them.

Sansa’s expression turns serious when she says, “Truly, what’s keeping you here, Jon?”

 _“You,”_ he answers, “I only just got back. Do you find me _that_ irritating?”

His sisters hug him--Sansa puts an arm around his shoulders, and Arya kneels beside the chair and wraps her arms around his middle.

“We love you, dumbass,” Arya says into his shirt, “Even if this shirt needs laundering.”

“But you’re not happy,” Sansa says, “and we want you to be. If going to Satin might give you that, you owe yourself to try.”

“...When I’m gone, you do shit like start an art forgery business.”

“That was _one_ thing,” Arya pokes him in the side.

“And we’re done with it. Arya’s going to sell original works, aren’t you?”

“Yep, and I’m gonna make money on my own and _not_ by copying old dead guys’ stuff. It won’t be as much, but it’ll be better.”

“And we saved the house, so when you get back, we’ll be here.”

Satin’s note is on his bedside table; Jon has the address memorized, even though he’s never left Westeros and the street name is meaningless to him.

“I’m...upset that he left,” Jon admits, “I want to know why, and I want...a chance, I guess. What if he’s not even there?”

“Then you drink on the beach for a week and come home,” Arya sits back in her chair, “but I think he’ll be waiting for you.”

* * *

Volantis is a _really_ long flight. 

By the time the plane descends into the airport, Jon’s exhausted. He watches sunlight glint off the Sunset Sea from the tiny round window as the plane descends. Arya and Sansa convinced him, but now that he’s so _close,_ Jon’s stomach is in knots.

_What if Satin isn’t there?_

_What if he’s pissed I took so long?_

_What if he was joking?_

Waking up alone with only a note for company felt like a suckerpunch. It’s not that he expected romance from a one-night stand; it’s that he expected more from Satin. Jon felt _something_ between them. Arya was right that the sex was _really_ good, but better than that was the connection he felt--the connection that he _swore_ was returned. 

Jon knew they would part, but he didn’t expect Satin to run before he could say farewell. _Maybe he was overwhelmed by his feelings, too?_

The humidity in Volantis is so oppressive that Jon can feel it inside the airport as he waits for his luggage.

Sansa lent him one of her suitcases; it has two wheels and is much less scuffed than his. Jon packed like he was going to stay for two weeks, but he may turn around and go back home. It takes a while for his bag to show up on the carousel, and it loops around a couple times before he recognizes it.

Jon hails a cab and reads the driver the address.

“Ritzy neighborhood.” The driver has a thick accent.

“Is it? I’ve never been.”

“Beachfront highrises and restaurants with tiny portions.”

Jon nods and settles into the back seat.

His heart tries to crawl out his throat the entire cab ride. He taps his fingers on his knee and watches the scenery out the window. It’s evening, and everything is in the first stages of being painted gold in the light. Jon’s good under pressure, but this isn’t like anything life has prepared him for. It’s like flinging himself into an abyss and _hoping_ there’s a cushion at the bottom. 

When they arrive, Jon tips the cab driver and drags his suitcase from the trunk. Then, he’s alone, staring up at the building before him. The architecture is totally different here--stucco and red tile roofs. The driver was right about the place being upscale; there’s a doorman who asks his name, looks at a list, and nods.

“We’ll call first, to make sure Mr. Flowers is home.”

Satin never told him his last name. _Flowers_ is so perfect for him that Jon nearly starts laughing. He doesn’t want the doorman to look at him like he’s crazy, so he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself.

A few words are exchanged on the phone, but they’re too quiet for Jon to hear. He runs through a scenario where he’s denied entry, and it hurts more than when he burned his hand and more than that one time he got stabbed. Those wounds are visible; this one wouldn’t be, but it would fester all the same.

After hanging up the phone, the man says, “Can I see your ID?” Jon digs his wallet out of his pocket and shows it. “You’re going to the tenth floor, sir.”

The elevator ride feels longer than the entire flight from Winterfell.

* * *

Jon knocks once.

The door is open before he has a chance to knock a second time. Satin is standing before him, wearing a robe of some sort that’s covered in tropical flowers with draping sleeves. It would look ridiculous if Jon wore it, but he’s convinced Satin could make mechanic’s coveralls look stylish.

There’s no spare moment to comment on it because Satin throws himself into Jon’s arms with a fervor Jon’s never witnessed. Satin buries his face in his chest and doesn’t speak, but he’s shaking. After a few seconds, Jon realizes that Satin is crying.

“What’s wrong?” Jon keeps his voice soft. He doesn't think Satin is unhappy to see him; they probably wouldn’t be hugging if that were the case.

“I thought I ruined it,” Satin’s voice is thick with his tears and almost completely muffled by Jon’s shirt. “I couldn’t bear to tell you goodbye, but I couldn’t just leave. I did some shitty middle thing instead--a fucking _note_ , Jon. What kind of person am I?”

“I wasn’t mad.” Jon gathers Satin as close to him as he can. “I was...confused, I guess, like maybe if I came here I wouldn’t find you.”

“I’ve been waiting. I never had hope, but I kept waiting anyway.”

“Arya and Sansa convinced me,” he admits. “I was too much of a coward to do it on my own.”

“You’re not a coward; I wouldn’t have chased me here, either.” He shakes his head against Jon’s chest. “It’s a long journey for someone who ran away at dawn.”

“Hey,” Jon touches Satin’s hair and tries to get him to look up. “May I come in?”

Satin startles and slides away from Jon, nodding. There are tears in his eyelashes, but all Jon notices are how pretty his eyes are. They’re a rich brown, and the shape of them is lovely. Satin makes Jon wish he could describe things more poetically.

“Of course. We shouldn’t just stand in the hall.” He wipes at his eyes. “Do you want a drink? Mine aren’t as good as the bar downstairs, but--oh _gods,_ you brought a suitcase.”

Jon starts laughing, “Did you think I was going to say hello then go back to the airport?”

“I didn’t think anything.” Satin shuts the front door and goes into his kitchen. 

It gives Jon a chance to look around the space. It’s bright and airy, with glass doors along one wall and balcony beyond that overlooks the sea. The doors are open, and Jon can hear the waves. The pillows on the couch are bright jewel tones, and there’s clutter on every surface.

_So this is how Satin is._

Jon sits at a bar stool to watch Satin flit around the kitchen. He’s plainly nervous; it shows in his flustered pulling of items from his refrigerator and cabinets. The drink he slides across the counter is yellow and tastes like rum and pineapple. As an afterthought, he pulls a bag of chips out of the cabinet and opens it.

“Things go stale here _really_ fast, so we should eat them all.”

“Okay.” 

Satin sits in the next barstool with his own drink and falls silent for a moment; he’s still fidgeting. All of Jon’s tension washed away when Satin answered his door. He can work with this-- _they_ can work with this.

“I was never mad,” Jon repeats.

“How could you not be?”

“Because we were together for three days. I knew it would end, no matter how good it was.” He takes a sip of the drink and finds it delicious. “Not sure what the ones downstairs taste like, but this is a good drink, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Satin blushes and hides behind his hair, “I should’ve said goodbye to you properly. I could’ve said ‘I have a place in Volantis; it’s where I go between jobs. Would you like to visit me?’”

“I’m here either way, aren’t I?”

“But you must think poorly of me; I’m too old to fuck and duck.”

“It was...a lot. I might’ve done the same, if the situation was different.”

They eat and drink in silence for a moment. Jon takes a handful of chips and tries to figure out what he wants from this. He _very_ badly wants to kiss Satin, but he needs a plan beyond that. 

Now, Jon _does_ feel nervous again. “Satin, why’d you invite me here?”

Satin takes a deep breath, then shuts his eyes. “I’m falling in love with you. I’m halfway there already; show me one more kindness, and I’ll want to keep you.”

In the three weeks he spent at Winterfell, Jon struggled to verbalize, even to himself, his feelings for Satin. He only understood their intensity. Jon can’t think of anything more accurate than what Satin just said.

“What act of kindness would it take...for the rest?”

He gives Jon a smile and sips his drink, “Nothing outrageous, just some time--a kiss, a day spent talking, a night in bed.”

 _So simple._ Jon wants the same things, and they’re all _so_ easy to give.

Jon puts his drink down. Standing next to Satin makes him just a bit taller than Jon. He takes Satin’s face between his hands, liking the smoothness of his skin. Jon has much less sensation in his burned hand, but it doesn’t matter when Satin turns his head into Jon’s palm and kisses him. Then, Satin reels Jon in the rest of the way until there’s only a breath of space between them.

“I was thinking of starting with the kiss part.”

Satin smiles, “I like that idea.”

He tastes like pineapple.

* * *

“You have purple bed sheets.”

Satin is sprawled across said bedsheets like a starfish, naked from the waist up. His floral robe was discarded somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom, and now he’s wearing just swim trunks. They’re low on his hips, and Jon feels no shame in staring. 

“It’s my favorite color,” Satin says, “Are you offended by them?”

“No. I just didn’t even know they _made_ purple sheets.”

“We’ll have to work on your taste,” he laughs and pats the mussed comforter. More pillows than Jon’s ever seen on a single bed are strewn around. They haven’t used the bed yet, which means Satin didn’t make it that morning.

Jon tugs the comforter into a semblance of order. “And maybe _your_ messiness.”

It’s something he’d say to Arya, and it says _a lot_ about how comfortable he feels; it also might be crossing a line that Satin thinks is rude. 

Satin starts laughing--the delighted one that’s nearly a giggle. Jon wants to bottle that sound and carry it around. “You’ll just have to make it again when we’re through.”

“You’re probably right.” Jon sits on the bed, and Satin rests his head on his knee. The curls of his har spill into Jon’s lap; he wants to touch them, so he does.

Satin hums in pleasure, and his eyes flutter shut, “Tell me something about Jon Snow I need to know.”

“I...think you know it all. I’m pretty dull.”

“You’re not.” Satin reaches for his scarred hand, “Tell me about this.”

“At the Wall, early on, there was a fire in a house. I heard yelling, so I went to see if anyone was trapped inside. I touched some drapes that were burning.”

“Were there people inside?”

Jon nods, “A mother and a child.”

“So you’re a hero.”

“No. People did _much_ braver things.”

Satin squeezes Jon’s hand, “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore. It's just stiff and doesn’t have much feeling.”

“Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else.”

 _A secret._ Jon keeps touching Satin’s hair while he thinks. “I’m not adjusting well to being at home,” he finally says. Sansa and Arya observed it, but they’d never talked about it. “My days were so structured, and without it I’m lost. Everything is too...soft, I guess.”

Satin looks up at him, “Soft?”

“I slept on the floor for the first month after I got back.” Admitting this is embarrassing, but Satin is still gripping his hand, so he continues. “My bed was too comfortable. The hotel bed was like that, too--I slept in the recliner the first two nights.”

“The night we were together, you slept.”

Jon chuckles, “I guess you wore me out.”

“We did go for _quite_ a bit,” Satin gives a coy grin, “It was _good,_ too. I’m looking forward to more.”

“I thought we were talking.”

“I think we can manage both; we did coordinate some art theft together.”

Satin sits up and pushes Jon onto the bed. The mattress is softer than the one at the hotel; it might be the softest thing he’s ever laid on. When Satin puts his weight on him, Jon feels like he’s sinking into a cloud. Satin kisses him and wastes no time sliding his hands under Jon’s clothes. Every touch just _works,_ and Jon’s never felt that before. There was always some part of himself that Jon had to safeguard. Satin kisses him and writhes on top of him until his cock is hard and everything hums in anticipation.

“Jon,” Satin interrupts his thoughts, “let me take care of you, but keep answering my questions.”

“Do I get to ask you things?”

“Sure.”

Satin’s mouth is near his ear when Jon asks, “Why do you steal art?”

“I got wrapped up in some shit when I was a teenager.” Satin kisses his way down Jon’s neck; he’s got a hand under his shirt, too, and Jon’s not sure where to focus. “My mother died, and I had nowhere to go, so I pickpocketed to get by. I chose the wrong target, but he decided to let me go if I stole for him. I was good at it, and good at getting information.”

“Do you...like it?”

“I like the money,” Satin pushes his shirt until Jon sits enough to cast it aside, “I like this condo, and I like having food and clothes. I save most of it, though.”

Satin’s teeth dragging over his nipple almost steals Jon’s next question, but he manages to gasp, “Are you…lonely?’

The fly of his jeans is halfway down when Satin rests his cheek on Jon’s chest and says, “I am, but there’s this handsome, _kind_ man in my bed, so maybe not for long?”

The questions continue--Satin asks a few of his own, and Jon, shuddering, tries to tell him about growing up at Winterfell and joining the army. Satin has two fingers buried in him when Jon asks his final question

“Is your last name _really_ Flowers?”

“Yep,” Satin lines himself up and pushes. “Silly, right?”

“I, _ah--_ I really like it, actually.”

* * *

The bed _is_ too soft, but Jon dozes until night falls and wakes with his back spooned against Satin.

 _I could sleep through the night this way._ Jon wants to try, at least. 

Then, his stomach grumbles and Satin laughs. “Wanna order takeout? Some of the local cuisine here is _amazing.”_

Jon nods and turns over under Satin’s arm. “Satin, how long do you usually stay here between jobs?”

He turns the question back on Jon. “How long do _you_ want to stay?”

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” Jon answers, “And I think my sisters will stay on the straight and narrow. They made it clear they were fine without me.”

Something Jon doesn’t quite catch passes over Satin’s features. Then, he hides his face in the purple pillowcase. “I told myself I’d quit stealing the day someone caught me.”

“Depending on who caught you, you _might_ not have a choice.” Jon doesn’t like the idea of Satin going to prison, even if he _has_ committed crimes. It’s the same feeling he has about Sansa and Arya.

“The police will _never_ catch me.”

“So smug.”

“Just confident.” Satin snuggles closer to him, “There’s _one_ person who caught me, though, and I’m hoping he doesn’t seem keen on setting me free.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts either here or on tumblr @kurikaesu-haru!


End file.
